Chance ; a tale in two parts

hJm

CHANCE

JOSEPH
CONRAD

J

*%&&*

PR

c a
I 4 i3

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

GIFT OF

Arlie W. Anderson

'47
Beth Anderson '80
Roger L. Anderson

'78

CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

3 1924 060 276 973

All books are subject to recall after two weeks
Olin/Kroch Library

DATE DUE

iji OJ.

, r i/SV"V"

J&Hee

^9o

rrn

no "*'

rP ; '

— *'y inno

J,/''"''"

rtts

sSSaWfcSfcSWw*

'iitef-a*

*f*r*

GAYLORD

PRINTED IN U.S.A.

Cornell University
Library

The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924060276973

CHANCE

BOOKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD

ALMAYER'S FOLLY

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

THE NIGGER OF THE "NARCISSUS"

TALES OF UNREST

LORD JIM: A ROMANCE

YOUTH: A NARRATIVE

TYPHOON

FALK, AND OTHER STORIES

NOSTROMO: A TALE OF THE SEABOARD

THE MIRROR OF THE SEA

THE SECRET AGENT

A SET OF SIX

UNDER WESTERN EYES

A PERSONAL RECORD

•TWIXT LAND AND SEA

CHANCE

WITHIN THE TIDES

VICTORY

THE SHADOW-LINE

THE ARROW OF GOLD

THE RESCUE

NOTES ON LIFE AND LETTERS

THE ROVER

THE SHORTER TALES OF JOSEPH
CONRAD J

TALES OF HEARSAY

LAIGHING ANNE and ONE DAY
MORE (Two Plays)

SUSPENSE

With Ford Madox Ford '(Hueffer)

ROMANCE: A NOVEL
THE INHERITORS: AN EXTRAVAGANT

STORY
THE NATURE OF A CRIME

C HANCE

A TALE IN TWO PARTS

BY
JOSEPH CONRAD

Those"that hold that all things are
governed by Fortune had not erred,
had they not persisted there.

— Sm Thomas Browns

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1926

COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1921, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE It COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COPTBIQHT, 1912, BT THE NEW YORK HEHALD CO.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

AT

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS. GARDEN CITY. N. Y.

TO

SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G.

WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP
IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE
EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Chance" is one of my novels that shortly after
having been begun were laid aside for a few months.
Starting impetuously like a sanguine oarsman setting
forth in the early morning I came very soon to a fork in
the stream and found it necessary to pause and reflect
seriously upon the direction I would take. Either pre-
sented to me equal fascinations, at least on the surface,
and for that very reason my hesitation extended over
many days. I floated in the calm water of pleasant spec-
ulation, between the diverging currents or conflicting
impulses, with an agreeable but perfectly irrational con-
viction that neither of those currents would take me to
destruction. My sympathies being equally divided and
the two forces being equal it is perfectly obvious that
nothing but mere chance influenced my decision in the
end. It is a mighty force that of mere chance," absolutely
irresistible yet manifesting itself often in delicate forms
such for instance as the charm, true or illusory, of a
human being. It is very difficult to put one's finger
on the imponderable, but I may venture to say that it
is Flora de Barral who is really responsible for this
novel which relates, in fact, the story of her life.

At the crucial moment of my indecision Flora de
Barral passed before me, but so swiftly that I failed at
first to get hold of her. Though loth to give her
up I didn't see the way of pursuit clearly and was
on the point of becoming discouraged when my
natural liking for Captain Anthony came to my as-

x AUTHOR'S NOTE

sistance. I said to myself that if that man was so
determined to embrace a "wisp of mist" the best thing
for me was to join him in that eminently practical and
praiseworthy adventure. I simply followed Captain
Anthony. Each of us was bent on capturing his own
dream. The reader will be able to judge of our success.

Captain Anthony's determination led him a long
and roundabout course and that is why this book is a
long book. That the course was of my own choosing
I will not deny. A critic has remarked that if I had
selected another method of composition and taken a
little more trouble the tale could have been told in
about two hundred pages. I confess I do not perceive
exactly the bearings of such criticism or even the use
of such a remark. No doubt that by selecting a cer-
tain method and taking great pains the whole story
might have been written out on a cigarette paper.
For that matter, the whole history of mankind could
be written thus if only approached with sufficient de-
tachment. The history of men on this earth since the
beginning of ages may be resumed in one phrase of
infinite poignancy: They were born, they suffered,
they died. . . Yet it is a great tale! But in the
infinitely minute stories about men and women it is
my lot on earth to narrate I am not capable of such
detachment.

What makes this book memorable to me apart from
the natural sentiment one has for one's creation is the
response it provoked. The general public responded
largely, more largely perhaps than to any other book of
mine, in the only way the general public can respond,
that is by buying a certain number of copies. This
gave me a considerable amount of pleasure, because
wnat I always feared most was drifting unconsciously
into the position of a writer for a limited coterie; .a

AUTHOR'S NOTE xi

position which would have been odious to me as
throwing a doubt on the soundness of my belief in the
solidarity of all mankind in simple ideas and in sincere
emotions. Regarded as a manifestation of criticism
(for it would be outrageous to deny to the general
public the possession of a critical mind) the reception
was very satisfactory. I saw that I had managed to
please a certain number of minds busy attending to
their own very real affairs. It is agreeable to think
one is able to please. From the minds whose business
it is precisely to criticize such attempts to please, this
book received an amount of discussion and of a rather
searching analysis which not only satisfied that per-
sonal vanity I share with the rest of mankind but
reached my deeper feelings and aroused my gratified in-
terest. The undoubted sympathy informing the varied
appreciations of that book was, I love to think, a
recognition of my good faith in the pursuit of my art
— the art of the novelist which a distinguished French
writer at the end of a successful career complained of as
being: Trop difficile I It is indeed too arduous in the
sense that the effort must be invariably so much
greater than the possible achievement. In that sort of
foredoomed task which is in its nature very lonely also,
sympathy is a precious thing. It can make the most
severe criticism welcome. To be told that better
things have been expected of one may be soothing in
view of how much better things one had expected from
oneself in this art which, in these days, is no longer jus-
tified by the assumption, somewhere and somehow,
of a didactic purpose.

I do not mean to hint that anybody had ever done
me the injury (I don't mean insult, I mean injury) of
charging a single one of my pages with didactic pur-
pose. But every subject in the region of intellect and

Xll

AUTHOR'S NOTE

emotion must have a morality of its own if it is treated
at all sincerely; and even the most artful of writers
will give himself (and his morality) away in about
every third sentence. The varied shades of moral
significance which have been discovered in my writings
are very numerous. None of them, however, has
provoked a hostile manifestation. It may have hap-
pened to me to sin against taste now and then, but ap-
parently I have never sinned against the basic feelings
and elementary convictions which make life possible
to the mass of mankind and, by establishing a standard
of judgment, set their idealism free to look for plainer
ways, 3or higher feelings, for deeper purposes.

I cannot say that any particular moral complexion
has been put on this novel but I do not think that any-
body had detected in it an evil intention. And it is
only for their intentions that men can be held respon-
sible. The ultimate effects of whatever they do are
far beyond their control. In doing this book my in-
tention was to interest people in my vision of things
which is indissolubly allied to the style in which it is
expressed. In other words I wanted to write a cer-
tain amount of pages in prose, which, strictly speaking,
is my proper business. I have attended to it conscien-
tiously with the hope of being entertaining or at least
not insufferably boring to my readers. I can not suf-
ficiently insist upon the truth that when I sit down to
write my intentions are always blameless however de-
plorable the ultimate effect of the act may turn out
to be.

1920. J. C.

PAGE

CONTENTS

PART I

THE DAMSEL

Chapter One
Young Powell and His Chance 3

Chapter Two
The Fynes and the Girl-Friend 35

Chapter Three
Thrift— And the Child 67

Chapter Four
The Governess 96

Chapter Five
The Tea-Party 134

Chapter Six
Flora 163

Chapter Seven
On the Pavement 196

CONTENTS

PART II

THE KNIGHT

Chapter One

PAGB

The Ferndale 257

Chapter Two
Young Powell Sees and Hears 272

Chapter Three
Devoted Servants — And the Light of a Flare . 296

Chapter Four
Anthony and Flora 325

Chapter Five
The Great De Barral 349

Chapter Six

"... A moonless night, thick with stars

above, very dark on the water" .... 402

PART I
THE DAMSEL

CHANCE

CHAPTER ONE

YOUNG POWELL, AND HIS CHANCE

I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off
to dine in the dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging
to Marlow, my host and skipper. We helped the boy we
had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage be-
fore we went up to the river-side inn, where we found
our new acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified
loneliness at the head of a long table, white and in-
hospitable like a snow bank.

The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black
whiskers under a cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only
warm spot in the dinginess of that room cooled by the
cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by sight as
the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone
apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending
band of fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the Thames.
But the first time he addressed the waiter sharply as
" steward " we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a
yachtsman.

Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter
for the slovenly manner in which the dinner was served.
He did it with considerable energy and then turned to
us.

"If we at sea," he declared, "went about our work as
people ashore high and }pw go about theirs we should

4 CHANCE

never make a living. No one would employ us. And
moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go-
lucky manner people conduct their business on shore
would ever arrive into port."

Since he had retired from the sea he had been aston-
ished to discover that the educated people were not
much better than the others. No one seemed to take
any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were
simply thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to
think them a specially intellectual class) who never by
any chance gave a correct version of the simplest
affair. This universal inefficiency of what he called
"the shore gang" he ascribed in general to the want of
'responsibility and to a sense of security.

"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they
do this tight little island won't turn turtle with them or
spring a leak and go to the bottom with their wives and
children."

From this point the conversation took a special turn
relating exclusively to sea-life. On that subject he got
quickly in touch with Marlow who in his time had
followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of
reminiscences while I listened. They agreed that the
happiest time in their lives was as youngsters in good
ships with no care in the world but not to lose a watch
below when at sea and not a moment's time in going
ashore after work hours when in harbour. They
agreed also as to the proudest moment they had known
in that calling which is never embraced on rational and
practical grounds, because of the glamour of its ro-
mantic associations. It was the moment when they
had passed successfully their first examination and left
the seamanship Examiner with the little precious slip of
blue paper in their hands.

"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 5

cousin," declared our new acquaintance enthusiasti-
cally.

At that time the Marine Board examinations took
place at the St. Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill
and he informed us that he had a special affection for the
view of that historic locality, with the Gar dens to the
left, the front of the Mint to the right, the miserable
tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand,
boot-blacks squatting on the edge of the pavement and
a pair of big policemen gazing with an air of superiority
at the doors of the Black Horse public-house across the
road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes
first took notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had
emerged from the main entrance of St. Katherine'sDock
House a full-fledged second mate after the hottest time

of his life with Captain R , the most dreaded of the

three seamanship Examiners who at the time were
responsible for the merchant service officers qualifying
in the Port of London.

"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used
to shake in our shoes at the idea of going before him.
He kept me for an hour and a half in the torture cham-
ber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his
eyes shaded with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it
drop saying, 'You will do!' Before I realized what he
meant he was pushing the blue slip across the table.
I jumped up as if my chair had caught fire.

'"Thank you, sir,' says I, grabbing the paper.

'"Good morning, good luck to you,' he growls at me.

"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room
with my hat. They always do. But he looked very
hard at me before he ventured to ask in a sort of timid
whisper: 'Got through all right, sir?' For all answer I
dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm- 'Well,'
says he with a sudden grin from ear to ear, 'I never

6 CHANCE

knew him keep any of you gentlemen so long. He
failed two second mates this morning before your turn
came. Less than twenty minutes each: that's about
his usual time.'

"I found myself downstairs without being aware of
the steps as if I had floated down the staircase. The
finest day in my life. The day you get your first com-
mand is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so
young then and for another with us, you know, there
is nothing much more to expect. Yes, the finest day
of one's life, no doubt, but then it is just a day and no
more. What comes after is about the most unpleasant
time for a youngster, the trying to get an officer's berth
with nothing much to show but a brand-new certificate.
It is surprising how useless you find that piece of ass's
skin that you have been putting yourself in such a state
about. It didn't strike me at the time that a Board of
Trade e<jrtificate does not make an officer, not by a long,
long way. But the skippers of the ships I was haunting
with demands for a job knew that very well. I don't
wonder at them now, and I don't blame them either.
But this 'trying to get a ship' is pretty hard on a young-
ster all the same. . . ."

He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how
discouraged by this lesson of disillusion following swiftly
upon the finest day of his life. He told us how he went
the round of all the ship-owners' offices in the City
where some junior clerk would furnish him with printed
forms of application which he took home to fill up in the
evening. He used to run out just before midnight to
post them in the nearest pillar-box. And that was all
that ever came of it. In his own words : he might just as
well have dropped them all properly addressed and
stamped into the sewer grating.

Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 7

docks, he met a friend and former shipmate a little older
than himself outside the Fenchurch Street Railway
Station.

He craved for sympathy but his friend had just "got
a ship" that very morning and was hurrying home in a
state of outward joy and inward uneasiness usual to a
sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets a
berth. This friend had the time to condole with him
but briefly. He must be moving. Then as he was
running off, over his shoulder as it were, he suggested:
"Why don't you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the
Shipping Office? " Our friend objected that he did not
know Mr. Powell from Adam. And the other already
pretty near round the corner shouted back advice:
" Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and walk
right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up
boldly and say I sent you."

Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other
of us declared: "Upon my word, I had grown so
desperate that I'd have gone boldly up to the devil him-
self on the mere hint that he had a second mate's job to
give away."

It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk
to light his pipe but holding us with his eye he inquired
whether we had known Powell. Mario w with a slight
reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him
very well."

Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had
become involved in a vexatious difficulty with his pipe
which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed
his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball
rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in
any way.

"He was hot exactly remarkable," Marlow answered
with his usual nonchalance. "In a general way it's

8 CHANCE

very difficult for one to become remarkable. People
won't take sufficient notice of one, don't you know. 1
remember Powell so well simply because as one of the
Shipping Masters in the Port of London he dispatched
me to sea on several long stages of my sailor's pilgrim-
age. He resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled
him genuinely: that is in the face. A philosophical
mind is but an accident. He reproduced exactly the
familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will imagine
the bust with a high top hat riding far on the back of the
head and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never
saw him except from the other side of the long official
counter bearing the five writing-desks of the five Ship-
ping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me."

Our new acquaintance advanced now from the
mantel-piece with his pipe in good working order.
> "What was the most remarkable about Powell," he
enunciated dogmatically with his head in a cloud of
smoke, "is that he should have had just that name.
You see, my name happens to be Powell too."

It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to
us for social purposes. It required no acknowledgment.
We continued to gaze at him with expectant eyes.

He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his
pipe for a silent minute or two. Then picking up the
thread of his story he told us how he had started hot
foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since
the day of his examination — the finest day of his life —
the day of his overweening pride. It was very different
now. He would not have called the Queen his cousin,
still, but this time it was from a sense of profound
abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for
anybody's kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old
cab-drivers on the stand, the boot-black boys at the
edge of the pavement, the^two large bobbies pacing

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE £>

slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the con-
sciousness of their infallible might, and the bright
scarlet sentries walking smartly to and fro before the
Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of
world's labour. And he envied also the miserable,
sallow, thin-faced loafers blinking their obscene eyes
and rubbing their greasy shoulders against the door-
jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too
far gone to feel their degradation.

I must render the man the justice that he conveyed
very well to us the sense of his youthful hopelessness
surprised at not finding its place in the sun and no
recognition of its right to live.

He went up the outer steps of St Katherine's Dock
House, the very steps from which he had some six weeks
before surveyed the cabstand, the buildings, the police-
men, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and plateglass of
the Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the
time he had been at the bottom of his heart surprised
that all this had not greeted him with songs and in-
cense, but now (he made no secret of it) he made his
entry in a slinking fashion past the doorkeeper's glass
box. "I hadn't any half-crowns to spare for tips," he
remarked grimly. The man, however, ran out after
him asking : ' ' What do you require ? ' ' but with a grate-
ful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of Cap-
tain R— — 's examination room (how easy and de-
lightful all that had been) he bolted down a flight lead-
ing to the basement and found himself in a place of
dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid
of being stopped by some rule of no admittance. How-
ever he was not pursued.

The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast
in extent and confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light
slant from above into the gloom of its chilly passages.

10 CHANCE

Powell wandered up and down there like an early
Christian refugee in the catacombs; but what little
faith he had in the success of his enterprise was oozing
out at his finger-tips. At a dark turn under a gas
bracket whose flame was half turned down his self-
confidence abandoned him altogether.

"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish
thing to do because of course I got scared. What could
you expect? It takes some nerve to tackle a stranger
with a request for a favour. I wished my namesake
Powell had been the devil himself. I felt somehow it
would have been an easier job. You see, I never be-
lieved in the devil enough to be scared of him; but a man
can make himself very unpleasant. I looked at a lot
of doors, all shut tight, with a growing conviction that I
would never have the pluck to open one of them.
Thinking's no good for one's nerve. I concluded I
would give up the whole business. But I didn't give up
in the end, and I'll tell you what stopped me. It was
the recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who
had called after me. I felt sure the fellow would be on
the look out at the head of the stairs. If he asked me
what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I
wouldn't know what to answer that wouldn't make me
look silly if no worse. I got very hot. There was no
chance of slinking out of this business.

"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of
the many doors of various sizes, right and left, a good
few had glazed lights above; some, however, must have
led merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when
I brought myself to try one or two I was disconcerted to
find that they were locked. I stood there irresolute and
uneasy like a baffled thief. The confounded basement
was as still as a grave and I became aware of my heart-
beats. Very^ uncomfortable sensation. Never hap-

i YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 11

pened to me before or since. A bigger door to the left of
me, with a large brass handle, looked as if it might lead
into the Shipping Office. I tried it, setting my teeth.
'Here goes!'

"It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it
opened into was hardly any bigger than a cupboard.
Anyhow it wasn't more than ten feet by twelve; and as I
in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like ex-
tent of the Shipping Office where I had been once or
twice before, I was extremely startled. A gas bracket
hung from the middle of the ceiling over a dark, shabby
writing-desk covered with a litter of yellowish dusty
documents. Under the flame of the single burner
which made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little
man was writing hard, his nose very near the desk.
His head was perfectly bald and about the same drab
tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too.

"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on
him, but I shouldn't wonder if there were because he
looked as though he had been imprisoned for years in
that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat
blinking my way upset me very much. And his
dungeon was hot and musty; it smelt of gas and mush-
rooms, and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below the
ground. Solid, heavy stacks of paper filled all the cor-
ners half-way up to the ceiling. And when the thought
flashed upon me that these were the premises of the
Marine Board and that this fellow must be connected
in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my
astonishment took my breath away. One couldn't
imagine why the Marine Board should keep that bald,
fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or
other I felt sorry and ashamed to have found him out in
his wretched captivity. I asked gently and sorrowfully :
'The Shipping Office, please.'

12 CHANCE

" He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which
made me start: 'Not here. Try the passage on the
other side. Street side. This is the Dock side. You've
lost your way . . .'

"He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he
was going to round off with the words: 'You fool' . . .
and perhaps he meant to. But what he finished sharply
with was: 'Shut the door quietly after you.'

"And I did shut it quietly — you bet. Quick and
quiet. The indomitable spirit of that chap impressed
me. I wonder sometimes whether he has succeeded in
writing himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had
to go out of his gas-lighted grave straight into that other
dart one where nobody would want to intrude. My
humanity was pleased to discover he had so much kick
left in him, but I was not comforted in the least. It
occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort of
temper. . . . However, I didn't give myself time
to think and scuttled across the space at the foot of the
stairs into the passage where I'd been told to try. And
I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any
hanging back, because coming loudly from the hall
above an amazed and scandalized voice wanted to know
what sort of game I was up to down there. 'Don't you
know there's no admittance that way?' it roared. But
if there was anything more I shut it out of my hearing by
means of a door marked Private on the outside. It let
me into a six-feet wide strip between a long counter
and the wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a
grated window and a glazed door giving daylight to the
farther end. The first thing I saw right in front of me
were three middle-aged men having a sort of romp
together round about another fellow with a thin, long
neck and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk
writing on a large sheet of paper a^d taking no notice

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 13

except that he grinned quietly to himself. They turned
very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of
them mutter: 'Hullo! What have we here?'

"'I want to see Mr. Powell, please,' I said, very civil
but firm; I would let nothing scare me away now. This
was the Shipping Office right enough. It was after 3
o'clock and the business seemed over for the day with
them. The long-necked fellow went on with his writing
steadily. I observed that he was no longer grinning.
The three others tossed their heads all together towards
the far end of the room where a fifth man had been
looking on at their antics from a high stool. I walked
up to him as boldly as if he had been the devil himself.
With one foot raised up and resting on the cross-bar of
his seat he never stopped swinging the other which was
well clear of the stone floor. He had unbuttoned the
top of his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at
the back of his head. He had a full unwrinkled face
and such clear-shining eyes that his grey beard looked
quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You said
just now he resembled Socrates — didn't you? I don't
know about that. This Socrates was a wise man, I
believe?"

"He was," assented Marlow. "And a true friend of
youth. He lectured them in a peculiarly exasperating
manner. It was a way he had."

"Then give me Powell every time," declared our new
acquaintance sturdily. "He didn't lecture me in any
way. Not he. He said: 'How do you do?' quite
kindly to my mumble. Then says he looking very hard
at me: 'I don't think I know you — do I?'

" 'No, sir,' I said, and down went my heart sliding into
my boots, just as the time had come to summon up all
my cheek. There's nothing meaner in the world than
a piece of impudence that isn't carried off well. For

14 CHANCE

fear of appearing shamefaced I started about it so free
and .easy as almost to frighten myself. He listened for
a while looking at my face with surprise and curiosity
and then held up his hand. I was glad enough to shut
up, I can tell you.

"'Well, you are a cool hand,' says he. 'And that
friend of yours too. He pestered me coming here every
day for a fortnight till a captain I'm acquainted with
was good enough to give him a berth. And no
sooner he's provided for than he turns you on. You
youngsters don't seem to mind whom you get into
trouble.'

"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and
curiosity. He hadn't been talking loud, but he lowered
his voice still more.

"'Don't you know it's illegal?'

"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered
that procuring a berth for a sailor is a penal offence
under the Act. That clause was directed of course
against the swindling practices of the boarding-house
crimps. It had never struck me it would apply to
everybody alike no matter what the motive, because I
believed then that people on shore did their work with
care and foresight.

"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made
me soon see that an Act of Parliament hasn't any sense
of its own. It has only the sense that's put into it; and
that's precious little sometimes. He didn't mind help-
ing a young man to a ship now and then, he said, but if
we kept on coming constantly it would soon get about
that he was doing it for money.

'"A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping
Master of the Port of London hauled up in a police court
and fined fifty pounds,' says he. 'I've another four
ywrs to serve to get, mv n ension. It could be mad<> to

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 15

look very black against me and don't you make any
mistake about it,' he says.

"And all the time with one knee well up he went on
swinging his other leg like a boy on a gate and looking
at me very straight with his shining eyes. I was con-
founded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him
imply that somebody would make a report against him.

" 'Oh!' I asked shocked, 'who would think of such a
scurvy trick, sir?' I was half disgusted with him for
having the mere notion of it.

"'Who?' says he, speaking very low. 'Anybody.
One of the office messengers maybe. I've risen to be
the Senior of this office and we are all very good friends
here, but don't you think that my colleague that sits
next to me wouldn't like to go up to this desk by the
window four years in advance of the regulation time?
Or even one year for that matter. It's human nature.'

"I could not help turning my head. The three
fellows who had been skylarking when I came in were
now talking together very soberly, and the long-necked
chap was going on with his writing still. He seemed to
me the most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface
and his lips were set very tight. I had never looked at
mankind in that light before. When one's young hu-
man nature shocks one. But what startled me most
was to see the door I had come through open slowly and
give passage to a head in a uniform cap with a Board of
Trade badge. It was that blamed old doorkeeper from
the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to dig me
out too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap
in hand.

'"What is it, Symons?' asked Mr. Powell.

"'I was only wondering where this 'ere gentleman
'ad gone to, sir. He slipped past me upstairs, sir.'

"I felt mighty uncomfortable-

16 CHANCE

" 'That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman,'
says Mr. Powell as serious as a judge.

"'Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentle-
man running races all by 'isself down 'ere, so I . . .'

'"It's all right, I tell you,' Mr. Powell cut him short
with a wave of his hand; and, as the old fraud walked off
at last, he raised his eyes to me. I did not know what to
do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was sorry.

'"Let's see,' says he, 'what did you tell me your
name was?'

"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all
and his question embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or
other it didn't seem proper for me to fling his own name
at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new
certificate from my pocket and put it into his hand un-
folded, so that he could read Charles Powell written very
plain on the parchment.

"He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid
it quietly on the desk by his side. I didn't know
whether he meant to make any remark on this coinci-
dence. Before he had time to say anything the glass
door came open with a bang and a tall, active man
rushed in with great strides. His face looked very red
below his high silk hat. You could see at once he was
the skipper of a big ship.

"Mr. Powell, after telling me in an undertone to wait
a little, addressed him in a friendly way.

" 'I've been expecting you in every moment to fetch
away your Articles, Captain. Here they are all ready
for you.' And turning to a pile of agreements lying
at his elbow he look up the topmost of them. From
where I stood I could read the words: 'Ship Ferndale'
written in a large round hand on the first page.

" 'No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck,' saya
that skipper. 'I've got to ask you to strike, out .my

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 11

second officer.' He seemed excited and bothered. He
explained that his second mate had been working on
board all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to
get a bit of dinner and didn't turn up at two as he ought
to have done. Instead there came a messenger from
the hospital with a note signed by a doctor. Collar
bone and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked
down by a pair horse van while crossing the road outside
the dock gate, as if he had neither eyes nor ears. And
the ship ready to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow
morning!

"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the
leaves of the agreement over. 'We must then take his
name off,' he says in a kind of unconcerned sing-song.

"'What am I to do?' burst out the skipper. 'This
office closes at four o'clock. I can't find a man in half
an hour.'

" 'This office closes at four,' repeats Mr. Powell glanc-
ing up and down the pages and touching up a letter
here and there with perfect indifference.

" 'Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a
man ready to go at such short notice I couldn't ship him
regularly here — could I?'

"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the
entries relating to that unlucky second mate and making
a note in the margin.

" 'You could sign him on yourself on board,' says he
without looking up. 'But I don't think you'll find
easily an officer for such a pier-head jump.'

"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of dis-
tress. The ship mustn't miss the next morning's tide.
He had to take on board forty tons of dynamite and a
hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down
the river before proceeding to sea. It was all arranged
for next day. There would be no end of fuss and com-

18 CHANCE

plications if the ship didn't turn up in time. ... I
couldn't help hearing all this, while wishing him to take
himself off, because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell
had told me to wait. After what he had been saying
there didn't seem any object in my hanging about. If
I had had my certificate in my pocket I would have tried
to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about
into the same position I found him in at first and was
again swinging his leg. My certificate open on the desk
was under his left elbow and I couldn't very well go up
and jerk it away.

'"I don't know,' says he carelessly, addressing the
helpless captain but looking fixedly at me with an ex-
pression as if I hadn't been there. 'I don't know
whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged
second mate at hand.'

"'Do you mean you've got him here?' shouts the
other, looking all over the empty public part of the
office as if he were ready to fling himself bodily upon
anything resembling a second mate. He had been so
full of his difficulty that I verily believe he had never
noticed me. Or perhaps seeing me inside he may have
thought I was some understrapper belonging to the
place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in my direction
he became very quiet and gave me a long stare. Then
he stooped to Mr. Powell's ear — I suppose he imagined
he was whispering, but I heard him well enough.

"'Looks very respectable.'

"'Certainly,' says the shippingmaster, quite calm
and staring all the time at me. 'His name's Powell.'

"'Oh, I see!' says the skipper, as if struck all of a
heap. 'But is he ready to join at once?'

"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings — in the North
of London, too, beyond Dalston, away to the devil — •
and all my gear -"«++OT»rl about, and my empty sea-/

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 19

chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was
staying with had at the end of their sooty strip of gar-
den. I heard the Shipping Master say in the coolest
sort of way.

'"He'll sleep on board to-night.'

'"He had better,' says the Captain of the Ferndale
very businesslike, as if the whole thing were settled. I
can't say I was dumb for joy as you may suppose. It
wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of being out
of breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem
possible that this was happening to me. But the
skipper, after he had talked for a while with Mr.
Powell, too low for me to hear, became visibly per-
plexed.

"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and
without experience as an officer, because he turned
about and looked me over as if I had been exposed for
sale.

"'He's young,' he mutters. 'Looks smart, though.
, . . You're smart and willing (this to me very sud-
den and loud) and all that, aren't you?'

"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no
more, being taken unawares. But it was enough for
him. He made as if I had deafened him with protes-
tations of my smartness and willingness.

"'Of course, of course. All right.' And then turn-
ing to the Shipping Master who sat there swinging his
leg, he said that he certainly couldn't go to sea without a
second officer. I stood by as if all these things were
happening to some other chap whom I was seeing
through with it. Mr. Powell stared at me with those
shining eyes of his. But that bothered skipper turns
upon me again as though he wanted to snap my head
off.

"'You aren't too big to be told how to do things— axe

20 CHANCE

you? You've a lot to learn yet though you mayn't
think so.'

"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him
that if it was my seamanship he was alluding to I
wanted him to understand that a fellow who had
survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half

by Captain R was equal to any demand his old ship

was likely to make on his competence. However he
didn't give me a chance to make that sort of fool of
myself, because before I could open my mouth he had
gone round on another tack and was addressing himself
affably to Mr. Powell, who swinging his leg never took
his eyes off me.

"'I'll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell.
If you let him sign on as second mate at once I'll take
the Articles away with me now.'

"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent
skipper of the Ferndale had taken it for granted that I
was a relative of the Shipping Master! I was quite
astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake
was natural enough under the circumstances. What
I ought to have admired was the reticence with which
this misunderstanding had been established and acted
apon. But I was too stupid then to admire anything.
All my anxiety was that this should be cleared up. I
was ass enough to wonder exceedingly at Mr. Powell
failing to notice the misapprehension. I saw a slight
twitch come and go on his face; but instead of setting
right that mistake the Shipping Master swung round
on his stool and addressed me as 'Charles.' He did.
And I detected him taking a hasty squint at my cer-
tificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was
not sure of my Christian name. 'Now then, come
round in front of the desk, Charles, 5 says he in a loud
voice*

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 21

"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem
possible that he was addressing himself to me. I even
looked round for that Charles, but there was nobody
behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his
writing, and the other three Shipping Masters who were
changing their coats and reaching for their hats, making
ready to go home. It was the industrious thin-necked
man who without laying down his pen lifted with his
left hand a flap near his desk and said kindly: 'Pass
this way.' #

"I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from
whom I learned that we were bound to Port Elizabeth
first, and signed my name on the Articles of the ship
Ferndale as second mate; — the voyage not to exceed two
years.

"'You won't fail to join — eh?' says the captain
anxiously. 'It would cause no end of trouble and ex-
pense if you did. You've got a good six hours to get
your gear together, and then you'll have time to snatch
a sleep on board before the crew joins in the morning.'

"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready
in six hours for a voyage that was not to exceed two
years. He hadn't to do that trick himself, and with his
sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which had
been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But neither
was I much concerned. The idea that I was absolutely
going to sea at six o'clock next morning hadn't got
quite into my head yet. It had been too sudden.

"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long en-
velope, spoke up with a sort of cold half-laugh without
looking at either of us.

"'Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles.'

"And the skipper chimes in very kindly —

'"He'll do well enough, I dare say. I'll look after
him a bit.'

22 CHANCE

' "Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something
about trying to run in for a minute to see that poor
devil in the hospital, and off he goes with his heavy
swinging step after telling me sternly, 'Don't you go
like that poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart
as if you hadn't either eyes or ears.'

"'Mr. Powell,' says I timidly (there was by then only
the thin-necked man left in, the office with us, and he
was already by the door, standing on one leg to turn the
bottom of his trousers up before going away). 'Mr.
Powell,' says I, 'I believe the captain of the Ferndale
Was thinking all the time that I was a relation of yours.'

"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it,
you know, but Mr. Powell didn't seem to be in the least.

'"Did he?' says he. 'That's funny, because it
seems to me too that I've been a sort of good uncle to
several of you young fellows lately. Don't you think
so yourself? However, if you don't like it you may put
him right — when you get out to sea.' At this I felt a bit
queer. Mr. Powell had rendered me a very good ser-
vice: — because it's a fact that with us merchant sailors
the first voyage as officer is the real start in life. He had
given me no less than that. I told him warmly that he
had done more for me that day than all my relations put
together ever did.

" ' Oh, no, no, ' says he. 'I guess it's that shipment of
explosives waiting down the river which has done most
for you. Forty tons of dynamite have been your best
friend to-day, young man.'

" That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly
enough that I had nothing to thank myself for. But as
I tried to thank him he checked my stammering.

"'Don't be in a hurry to thank me,' says he. 'The
voyage isn't finished yet.' "

Our new acquaintance paused, then added medi-

YQUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 23

tatively: "Queer man. As if it made any difference.
Queer man."

"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsi-
bility for our actions, whose consequences we are never
able to foresee," remarked Marlow by way of assent.

"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship,"
said the other. "That could not do much harm," he
added with a laugh which argued a probably un-
conscious contempt of general ideas.

But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and
reflective. He had been at sea many years, and I
verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the whole it
is favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now
nearly vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may
be surprised at the statement I will point out that this
life secured for the mind of him who embraced it the
inestimable advantages of solitude and silence. Mar-
low had the habit of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar
manner, between jest and earnest.

"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your name-
sake, Mr. Powell, the Shipping Master, had done you
much harm. Such was hardly his intention. And even
if it had been he would not have had the power. He
was but a man, and the incapacity to achieve anything
distinctly good or evil is inherent in our earthly con-
dition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps it's
just as well, since, for the most part, we cannot be cer-
tain of the effect of our actions."

"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up
to Marlow manfully. " What effect did you expect any-
how? I tell you he did something uncommonly kind."

"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently,
"and on his own showing that was not a very great deal.
I cannot help thinking that there was some malice in
the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He

U CHANCE

managed to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to
go to sea, but he jumped at the chance of accommo-
dating your desire with a vengeance. I am inclined to
think your cheek alarmed him. And this was an ex-
cellent occasion to suppress you altogether. For if you
accepted he was relieved of you with every appearance
of humanity, and if you made objections (after re-
questing his assistance, mind you) it was open to him
to drop you as a sort of impostor. You might have
had to decline that berth for some very valid reason.
From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was too
uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you'd
have covered yourself with ignominy."

Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

" Quite a mistake," he said. " I am not of the declin-
ing sort, though I'll admit it was something like telling
a man that you would like a bath, and in consequence
being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with
your clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in
deep water at first. I left the Shipping Office quietly
and for a time strolled along the street as easy as if I had
a week before me to fit myself out. But by and by I
reflected that the notice was even shorter than it looked.
The afternoon was well advanced; I had some things to
get, a lot of small matters to attend to, one or two
persons to see. One of them was an aunt of mine, my
only relation, who quarrelled with poor father as long
as he lived about some silly matter that had neither
right nor wrong to it. She left her money to me wb*»n
she died. I used always to go and see her for decency's
sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't
know where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the
kerb and hold my head in my hands. It was as if an
engine had been started going under my skull. Finally
J, pat down in the first cab that came along and it was a

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 25

hard matter to keep on sitting there, I can tell you,
while we rolled up and down the streets, pulling up here
and there, the parcels accumulating round me and the
engine in my head gathering more way every minute.
The composure of the people on the pavements was
provoking to a degree, and as to the people in shops,
they were benumbed, more than half frozen — imbecile.
Funny how it affects you to be in a peculiar state of
mind: everybody that does not act up to your excite-
ment seems so confoundedly unfriendly. And my state
of mind, what with the hurry, the worry and a growing
exultation, was peculiar enough. That engine in my
head went round at its top speed hour after hour till at
about eleven at night it let up on me suddenly at the
entrance to the Dock before large iron gates in a dead
wall."

These gates were closed and locked. The cabby,
after shooting his things off the roof of his machine into
young Powell's arms, drove away, leaving him alone witi
his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on
the pavement about his feet. It was a dark, narrow
thoroughfare, he told us. A mean row of houses on the
other side looked empty: there wasn't the smallest
gleam of light in them. The white-hot glare of a gin
palace a good way off made the intervening piece of the
street pitch black. Some human shapes appearing
mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the dark
ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown
down by the gateway lamps. These figures were wary
in their movements and perfectly silent of foot, like
beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. Powell
gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like
a hen over her brood, A gruffly insinuating voice
said —

26 CHANCE

"Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my
pal 'ere."

He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog
Jaw, in a torn cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The
shadow of his hobnailed boots was enormous and
coffinlike. His pal, who didn't come up much higher
than his elbow, stepping forward, exhibited a pale face
with a long drooping nose and no chin to speak of. He
seemed to have just scrambled out of a dust-bin in a
tam-o'-shanter cap and a tattered soldier's coat much
too long for him. Being so deadly white, he looked like
a horrible dirty invalid in a ragged dressing-gown. The
coat flapped open in front and the rest of his apparel
consisted of one brace which crossed his naked, bony
chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if
dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old
bandit, glowered at young Powell from under his beet-
ling brow.

"Say the word, Capt'in. The bobby'll let us in all
right. 'E knows both of us."

"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I
was listening to footsteps on the other side of the gate,
echoing between the walls of the warehouses as if in
an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from
basement to roof. You could never have guessed that
within a stone's throw there was an open sheet of water
and big ships lying afloat. The few gas lamps showing
up a bit of brickwork here and there, appeared in the
blackness like penny dips in a range of cellars — and the
solitary footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock
policeman strode into the light on the other side of the
gate, very broad-chested and stern.

"'Hallo! What's up here?'

"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he
let me in together with the two loafers carrying my

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 27

luggage. He grumbled at them, however, and slammed
the gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to
discover how many night prowlers had collected in the
darkness of the street in such a short time and without
my being aware of it. Directly we were through they
came surging against the bars, silent, like a mob of ugly
spectres. But suddenly, up the street somewhere,
perhaps near that public-house, a row started as if
Bedlam had broken loose: shouts, yells, an awful shrill
shriek — and at that noise all these heads vanished from
behind the bars.

'"Look at this,' marvelled the constable. 'It's a
wonder to me they didn't make off with your things
while you were waiting.'

"'•I would have taken good care of that,' I said de-
fiantly. But the constable wasn't impressed.

"'Much you would have done. The bag going off,
round one dark corner; the chest round another. Would ;
you have run two ways at once? And anyhow you'd
have been tripped up and jumped upon before you had
run three yards. I tell you you've had a most extraor-
dinary chance that there wasn't one of them regular
boys about to-night, in the High Street, to twig your
loaded cab go by. Ted here is honest. . . . You
are on the honest lay, Ted, ain't you?'

'"Always was, orficer,' said the big ruffian with feel-
ing. The other frail creature seemed dumb, and only
hopped about with the edge of its soldier coat touching
the ground.

" 'Oh yes, I dare say,' said the constable. 'Now then,
forward, march. . . . He's that because he ain't
game for the other thing,' he confided to me. 'He
hasn't got the nerve for it. However, I ain't going to
lose sight of them two till they go out through the gate.
That little chap's a devil. He's got the nerve for any-

28 CHANCE

thing, only he hasn't got the muscle. Well! Well!
You've had a chance to get in with a whole skin and with
all your things.'

"I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible
that after getting ready with so much hurry and in-
convenience I should have lost my chance of a start in
life from such a cause. I asked —

"'Does that sort of thing happen often so near the
dock gates?'

"'Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain't
often either that a man comes along with a cabload of
things to join a ship at this time of night. I've been in
the dock police thirteen years and haven't seen it done
once.'

"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was
being carried down a sort of deep narrow lane, separat-
ing two high warehouses, between honest Ted and his
little devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the
other's stride. The skirt of his soldier's coat floating
behind him nearly swept the ground so that he seemed
to be running on castors. At the corner of the gloomy
passage a rigged jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending
in an arrow-head stuck out of the night close to a cast-
iron lamp-post. It was the quay-side. They set down
their load in the light and honest Ted asked hoarsely —

'"Where's your ship, guv'nor?'

"I didn't know. The constable was interested at
my ignorance.

"'Don't know where your ship is?' he asked with
curiosity. 'And you the second officer! Haven't you
been working on board of her?'

"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with
my appointment was the work of chance. I told him
briefly that I didn't know her at all. At this he re-
marked —

iYOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 29

"'So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's
her.'

"At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me
with interest and respect; the spars were big, the chains
and ropes stout, and the whole thing looked powerful
and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light, her
bows rose faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay;
the rest of her was a black smudge in the darkness.
Here I was face to face with my start in life. We
walked in a body a few steps on a greasy pavement be-
tween her side and the towering wall of a warehouse and
I hit my shins cruelly against the end of the gangway.
The constable hailed her quietly in a bass undertone,
'Ferndale there!' A feeble and dismal sound, some-
thing in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered from
behind the bulwarks.

"I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of
wood, perhaps, resting on the rail. It did not move in
the least; but as another broken-down buzz like a still
fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded from it
I concluded it must be the head of the shipkeeper. The
stalwart constable jeered in a mock-official manner.

"'Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a
bit.'

" The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of
the stomach (you know that's the spot where emotion
gets home on a man), for it was borne upon me that
really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a
ship just like any other second officer to that constable.
I was moved by this solid evidence of my new dignity.
Only his tone offended me. Nevertheless I gave him
the tip he was looking for. Thereupon he lost all
interest in me, humorous or otherwise, and walked
away driving sternly before him the honest Ted, who
went off grumbling to himself like a hungry ogre, and

30 CHANCE

his horrible dumb little pal in the soldier's coat, who,
from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound.

"It was very dark on the quarter-deck of the Fern-
dale between the deep bulwarks overshadowed by the
break of the poop and frowned upon by the front of the
warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the
after hatch as if my legs had been jerked from under me.
I felt suddenly very tired and languid. The ship-
keeper, whom I could hardly make out, hung over the
capstan in a fit of weak, pitiful coughing. He gasped
out vdry low, 'Oh! dear! Oh! dear!' and struggled
for breath so long that I got up, alarmed and irreso-
lute.

" 'I've been took like this since last Christmas twelve-
month. It ain't nothing.'

"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never
saw him properly, because he was gone ashore and out of
sight when I came on deck in the morning; but he gave
me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever
breathed. His voice was thin like the buzzing of a
mosquito. As it would have been cruel to demand
assistance from such a shadowy wreck, I went to work
myself, dragging my chest along a pitch-black passage
under the poop-deck, while he sighed and moaned
around me as if my exertions were more than his weak-
ness could stand. At last, as I banged pretty heavily
against the bulkheads, he warned me in his faint
breathless wheeze to be more careful.

" 'What's the matter?' I asked rather roughly, not rel-
ishing to be admonished by this forlorn broken-down
ghost.

"'Nothing! Nothing, sir,' he protested so hastily
that he lost his poor breath again and I felt sorry for
him. 'Only the captain and his missus are sleeping on
board. She's a lady that mustn't be disturbed. They

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 31

Came about half -past eight, and we had a permit to have
lights in the cabin till ten to-night.'

"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I
had never been in a ship where the captain had his wife
with him. I'd heard fellows say that captains' wiv.es
could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they
happened to take a dislike to any one; especially the
new wives if young and pretty. The old and experienced
wives, on the other hand, fancied they knew more
about the ship than the skipper himself and had an eye
like a hawk's for what went on. They were like an
extra chief mate of a particularly sharp and unfeeling
sort who made his report in the evening. The best of
them were a nuisance. In the general opinion a skipper
with his wife on board was more difficult to please; but
whether to show off his authority before an admiring
female, or from loving anxiety for her safety, or simply
from irritation at her presence — nobody I ever heard on
the subject could tell for certain.

"After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck
a match and had a dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I
pitched the roll of my bedding into the bunk, but took
no trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy now,
neither was I tired. And the thought that I was done
with the earth for many many months to come made me
feel very quiet and self-contained as it were. Sailors
will understand what I mean."

Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional
feeling," he commented. "But other professions or
trades know nothing of it. It is only this calling whose
primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless ad-
venture which holds out that deep sensation to those
who embrace it. It is difficult to define, I admit."

"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr.
Charles Powell »u an earnest tone, but looking at us as

82 CHANCE

though he expected to be met by a laugh of derision and
were half prepared to salve his reputation for common
sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr.
Charles Powell, in whose start in life we had been called
to take a part. He was lucky in his audience.

"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him ap-
provingly. "A sailor finds a deep feeling of security in
the exercise of his calling. The exacting life of the sea
has this advantage over the life of the earth, that its
claims are simple and cannot be evaded."

"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they
cannot be evaded."

That an excellent understanding should have estab-
lished itself between my old friend and our new ac-
quaintance was remarkable enough. For they were
exactly dissimilar — one individuality projecting itself
in length and the other in breadth, which is already a
sufficient ground for irreconcilable difference. Marlow,
who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied shades
of brown, robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow,
veiled glance, the neutral bearing and the secret
irritability which go together with a predisposition to
congestion of the liver. The other compact, broad and
sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs
functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up
the brilliance of his colouring, the light curl of his coal-
black hair and the lustre of his eyes, which asserted
themselves roundly in an open, manly face. Between
two such organisms one would not have expected to
find the slightest temperamental accord. But I have
observed that profane men living in ships, like the holy
men gathered together in monasteries, develop traits of
profound resemblance. This must be because the ser-
vice of the sea and the service of a temple are both
detached from the vanities and errors of a world which

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 33

follows no severe rule. The men of the sea understand
each other very well in their view of earthly things, for
simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a bad
educator. A turn of mind composed of innocence and
scepticism is common to them all, with the addition of
an unexpected insight into motives, as of disinterested
lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to
say—

"I like the things he says."

"You understand each other pretty well," I ob-
served.

"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window
to look at his cutter still riding to the flood. "He's the
sort that's always chasing some notion or other round
and round his head just for the fun of the thing."

"Keeps them in good condition," I said.

"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted.

"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie
curled up?"

"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance.
Clearly he was not difficult to get on with. "I like
him, very well," he continued, "though it isn't easy to
make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two.
What's he doing?"

I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired
from the sea in a sort of half-hearted fashion some
years ago.

Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of

it?"

"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection,"
I observed, remembering the subtly provisional char-
acter of Marlow's long sojourn amongst us. From
year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the
branefc of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque
flight iftto its true element that it is incomprehensible

34 CHANCE^

why it should sit still minute after minute. The sea is
the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on
shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration
like a bird, which, secretly, should have lost its faith in
the high virtue of flying.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FTNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND

We were on our feet in the room by then, and
Marlow, brown and deliberate, approached the window
where Mr. Powell and I had retired.

"What was the name of your chance again?" he
asked.

Mr. Powell stared for a moment.

"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Compos-
ite built."

"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Fern,'
dale."

"Know her?"

"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every
ship. He seems to have gone about the seas prying into
things considerably."

Marlow smiled.

"I've seen her, at least once."

"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr.
Powell sturdily. "Without exception."

"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented
Marlow. "Uncommonly comfortable. Not very fast
tho\"

"She was fast enough for any reasonable man — when
I was in her," growled Mr. Powell with his back to us.

"Any ship is that — for a reasonable man," general-
ized Marlow in a conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a
globe-trotter."

"No," muttered Mr. Powell.

36 CHANCE

"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow.
"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All
the same, a quick passage is a feather in a man's cap."

"True. But that ornament is for the use of the
master only. And, by the by, what was his name?"

"The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain
Anthony."

"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thought-
fully. Our new acquaintance looked over his shoulder.

" What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it
had been Brown?"

"He has known him, probably," I explained. "Mar-
low here appears to know something of every soul that
ever went afloat in a sailor's body."

Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal
suggestions, for looking again out of the window, he
muttered: "He was a good soul."

This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Fern-
dale. Marlow addressed his protest to me.

"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a
good soul. That's nothing very much out of the way —
is it? And I didn't even know that much of him. All
I knew of him was an accident called Fyne."

At this Mr. Powell, who evidently could be rebellious,
too, turned his back squarely on the window..

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An —
accident — called Fyne," he repeated, separating the
Words with emphasis.

Marlow was not disconcerted.

" I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not
in the least. Fyne was a good little man in the Civil
Service. By accident I mean that which happens
blindly and without intelligent design. That's gener-
ally the way a brother-in-law happens into, a man's
life."

, THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 37

Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new ac-
quaintance having again turned to the window, I took
it upon myself to say —

"You are justified. There is very little intelligent
design in the majority of marriages ; but they are none
the worse for that. Intelligence leads people astray as
far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a cynic."

Marlow smiled his retrospective smile, which was
kind as though he bore no grudge against people he
used to know.

"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There
was no design at all in it. Fyne, you must know, was an
enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent his holidays tramp-
ing all over our native land. His tastes were simple.
He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his
holidays. At the proper season you would meet in the
fields Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man,
with a shabby knapsack on his back, making for some
church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote
once a little book called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and
was recognized as an authority on the footpaths of
England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields,
back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village
where he met Miss Anthony. Pure accident, you see.
They came to an understanding, across some stile, most
likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the
destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our
sublunary love, the obligations of this transient life,
and so on. He probably disclosed them to his future
wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very decided,
too, but in a different way. I don't know the story of
their wooing. I imagine it was carried on clandestinely
and, I am certain, with portentous gravity, at the back
of copses, behind hedges. ..."

"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired.

38 CHANCE

"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage
sentimentalist who had his own decided views of his
paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but the only
evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his
pride in his wife's parentage. It stimulated his in-
genuity, too. Difficult — is it not? — to introduce one's
wife's maiden name into general conversation. But
my simple Fyne made use of Captain Anthony for that
purpose, or else I would never even have heard of the
man. 'My wife's sailor-brother' was the phrase. He
trotted out the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of
subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, matters of trade,
talk of travels, of seaside holidays and so on. Once I
remember 'My wife's sailor-brother Captain Anthony'
being produced in connection with nothing less recon-
dite than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add:
'The son of Carleon Anthony, the poet — you know.'
He used to lower his voice for that statement, and
people were impressed, or pretended to be."

The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time,
of the domestic and social amenities of our age with a
most felicitous versification, his object being, in his own
words, "to glorify the result of six thousand years'
evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners,
and feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand
years I don't know. His poems read like sentimental
novels told in verse of a really superior quality. You
felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful
country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage.
But in his domestic life that same Carleon Anthony
showed traces of the primitive cave-dweller's tempera-
ment. He was a massive, implacable man with a
handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his de-
pendants, but marvellously suave in his manner to
sdmiring strangers. These contrasted displays must

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 39

have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering
family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he
persisted by a mere whim in educating at home, ran
away in conventional style and, as if disgusted with
the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively
speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the
two children), either from compassion or because
women are naturally more enduring, remained in bond-
age to the poet for several years, till she too seized a
chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the
muscular arms, of the pedestrian Fyne. This was
either great luck or great sagacity. A civil servant is, I
should imagine, the last human being in the world to
preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she
was fleeing. Her father would never consent to see
her after the marriage. Such unforgiving selfishness is
difficult to understand unless as a perverse sort of
refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon
Anthony's complete sanity for some considerable
time before he died.

Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I
knew of Carleon Anthony was his unexciting but
fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that the Fyne
marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an
earnest, unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by
three healthy, active, self-reliant children, all girls.
They were all pedestrians, too. Even the youngest
would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs.
Fyne had a ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore
blouses with a starched front like a man's shirt, a stand-
up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made their
acquaintance one summer in the country, where they
were accustomed to take a cottage for the holidays. . . .
At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell, who
declared that he must leave us. The tide was on the

40 CHANCE

turn, he announced, coming away from the window
abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before
she swung, and of course he would sleep on board.
Never slept away from the cutter while on a cruise. He
was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving us
no offence and leaving behind an impression as though
we had known him for a long time. The ingenuous way
he had told us of his start in life had something to do
with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no
thought to seeing him again. Marlow expressed a
confident hope of coming across him before long.

"He> cruises about the mouth of the river all the
summer. He will be easy to find any week-end," he
remarked, ringing the bell so that we might settle up
with the waiter.

Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate
this chance acquaintance. He confessed apologetically
that it was the commonest sort of curiosity. I flatter
myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. Curi-
osity about daily facts, about daily things, about daily
men. It is the most respectable faculty of the human
mind — in fact, I cannot conceive the uses of an incurious
mind. It would be like a chamber perpetually locked
up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell seemed
to have given us already a complete insight into his
personality such as it was; a personality capable of
perception and with a feeling for the vagaries of fate,
but essentially simple in itself.

Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained, how-
ever, that his curiosity was not excited by Mr. Powell
exclusively. It originated a good way further back in
the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes
in the country. This chance meeting with a man who
had sailed with Captain Anthony had revived it. It

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 41

had revived it to some purpose, to such purpose that to
me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of its
nature. ^ It was given to me in several stages, at inter-
vals which are not indicated here. On this first oc-
casion I remarked to Marlow with some surprise:
"But, if I remember rightly, you said you didn't
know Captain Anthony."

"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now,
but I seem to hear solemn little Fyne's deep voice an-
nouncing the approaching visit of his wife's brother,
'the son of the poet, you know.' He had just arrived in
London from a long voyage, and, directly his occupa-
tions permitted, was coming down to stay with his
relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should
find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference
to our common calling, added little Fyne portentously
in his grave undertones, as if the Mercantile Marine
were a secret society.

"You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes
only in the country, in their holiday time. This was
the third year. Of their existence in town I knew no
more than may be inferred from analogy. I played
chess with Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes
came over to the cottage early enough to have tea with
the whole family at a big round table. They sat about
it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words
indeed. Even the children were silent and as if con-
temptuous of each other and of their elders. Fyne
muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some
insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically
(she had splendid teeth) while distributing tea and
bread and butter. A something which was not cold-
ness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar self-
possession gave her the appearance of a very trust-
Worthy, very capable and excellent governess; as it

42 CHANCE

Fyne were a widower and the children not her own. but
only entrusted to her calm, efficient, unemotional care.
One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she
called him John it surprised one like a shocking famili-
arity. The atmosphere of that holiday was — if I may
put it so — brightly dull. Healthy faces, fair com-
plexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in the
whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend.

" The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How
and where the Fynes got all these pretty creatures to
come and stay with them I can't imagine. I had at
first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to
amuse Fyne. But I soon discovered that he could
hardly tell one from the other, though obviously their
presence met with his solemn approval. These girls in
fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They treated her with ad-
miring deference. She answered to some need of theirs.
They sat at her feet. They were like disciples. It was
very curious. Of Fyne they took but scanty notice.
As to myself, I was made to feel that I did not exist,

"After tea we would sit down to chess and then
Fyne's everlasting gravity became faintly tinged by an
attenuated gleam of something inward which re-
sembled sly satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of
laughter he was only capable over a chess-board. Cer-
tain positions of the game struck him as humorous,
which nothing else on earth could do. . . ."

"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence.

"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up
hastily.

So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The
children romped together outside, gravely, unplayfully,
as one would expect from Fyne's children, and Mrs.
Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with
the girl-friend of the week. She always walked off

, THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 43

directly after tea with her arm round the girl-friend's
waist. Marlow said that there was only one girl-friend
with whom he had conversed at all. It had happened
quite unexpectedly, long after he had given up all
hope of getting into touch with these reserved girl-
friends.

One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge
of a high quarry, which rose a sheer hundred feet, at
least, from the road winding up the hill out of which it
had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her
from below where he happened to be passing. She
was really in considerable danger. At the sound of his
voice she started back and retreated out of his sight
amongst some young Scotch firs growing near the very
brink of the precipice.

"I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on.
" She had given me a turn. The hem of her skirt seemed
to float over that awful sheer drop, she was so close to
the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad
trick — for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on
the foolhardiness of the average girl and remembering
some other instances of the kind, when she came into
view walking down the steep curve of the road. She
had Mrs. Pyne's walking-stick and was escorted by the
Fyne dog. Her dead white face struck me with aston-
ishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat. I just sat
and stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal
which for some inscrutable reason had bestowed his
friendship on my unworthy self, rushed up the bank
demonstratively and insinuated himself under my arm.

"The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some
way as though she had not seen me, then stopped and
called the dog to her several times; but he only nestled
closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away
developed that remarkable power of internal resistance

44 CHANCE

by which a dog makes himself practically immovable
by anything short of a kick. She looked over her
shoulder and her arched eyebrows frowned above her
blanched face. It was almost a scowl. Then the ex- .
pression changed. She looked unhappy. 'Come
here!' she cried once more in an angry and distressed
tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog, hanging
out his tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression
some dogs know so well how to put on when it suits
their purpose, pretended to be deaf.

" She cried from the distance desperately.

'"Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I
can't wait.'

"'I won't be responsible for that dog,' I protested,
getting down the bank and advancing towards her. She
looked very hurt, apparently by the desertion of the
dog. 'But if you let me walk with you he will follow
us all right,' I suggested.

"She moved on without answering me. The dog
launched himself suddenly full speed down the road,
receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It vanished
in the distance, and presently we came up with him
lying on the grass. He panted in the shade of the
hedge with shining eyes, but pretended not to see us.
We had not exchanged a word so far. The girl by my
side gave him a scornful glance in passing.

'"He offered to come with me,' she remarked bitterly.

'"And then abandoned you!' I sympathized. 'It
looks very unchivalrous. But that's merely his want of
tact. I believe he meant to protest against your reck-
less proceedings. What made you come so near the
edge of that quarry? The earth might have given way.
Haven't you noticed a smashed fir tree at the bottom?
Tumbled over only the other morning after a night's
rain.'

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 45

"'I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I
please.'

" I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her
folly, and I told her that neither did I as far as that
went, in a tone which almost suggested that she was
welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This was
considerably more than I meant, but I don't like rude
girls. I had been introduced to her only the day be-
fore — at the round tea-table — and she had barely
acknowledged the introduction. I had not caught
her name, but I had noticed her fine, arched eye-
brows which, so the physiognomists say, are a sign of
courage.

"I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was
nearly black, her eyes blue, deeply shaded by long dark
eyelashes. She had a little colour now. She looked
straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side
drooped a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I
went on to say that some regard for others should stand
in the way of one's playing with danger. I urged play-
fully the distress of the poor Fynes in case of accident, if
nothing else. I told her that she did not know the
bucolic mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner's
inquest the verdict would have been suicide, with the
implication of unhappy love. They would never be
able to understand that she had taken the trouble to
climb over two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of
being reckless. Indeed, even as I talked chaffingly, I
was greatly struck myself by the fact. She retorted
that, once one was dead, what horrid people thought of
one did not matter. It was said with infinite contempt;
but something like a suppressed quaver in the voice
made me look at her again. I perceived then that her
thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery
silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy.

46 CHANCE

And — I don't know how to say it — well — it suited her.
The clouded brow, the pained mouth, the vague fixed
glance! A victim. And this characteristic aspect
made her attractive; an individual touch — you know.

"The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by
the side of the Fyne's garden gate in a tense attitude and
wagging his stumpy tail very, very slowly, with an air of
concentrated attention. "The girl-friend of the Fynes
bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the
cottage, leaving me on the road — astounded.

"A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the
cottage for chess as usual. I saw neither the girl nor
Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games and on
parting I warned Fyne that I was called to town on
business and might be away for some time. He re-
gretted it very much. His brother-in-law was ex-
pected next day but he didn't know whether he was a
chess-player. Captain Anthony ('the son of the poet
— you know') was of a retiring disposition, shy with
strangers, unused to society, and very much devoted to
his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they had been
married he could be induced only once before to come
and stay with them for a few days. He had had a
rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a silent man.
But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portent-
ously with a mystery, we two sailors should find much to
say to one another.

"This point was never settled. I was detained in
town from week to week till it seemed hardly worth
while to go back. But as I had kept on my rooms in
the farm-house I concluded to go down again for a few
days.

"It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little
country station. My eyes fell on the unmistakable
hroad back and the muscular legs in cycling stockings of

THE FYNES AND THE GIRI^-FRIEND 47

little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly
towards the rear of the train, which presently pulled out
and left him solitary at the end of the rustic platform.
When he came back to where I waited I perceived that
he was much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the
convention of the usual greetings.' He only exclaimed
Oh! on recognizing me, and stopped irresolute. When
I asked him if he had been expecting somebody by
that train he didn't seem to know. He stammered
disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all ap-
pearances he was perfectly sober; moreover, to suspect
Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties high or low, great or
small, was absurd. He was also a too serious and de-
liberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed
to have forgotten that he had a tongue in his head I
concluded I would leave him to his mystery. To my
surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by
my side, though I did not encourage him. I did not,
however, repulse his attempts at conversation. He was
no longer expecting me, he said. He had given me up.
The weather had been uniformly fine — and so on. 1
gathered also that the son of the poet had curtailed his
stay somewhat and had gone back to his ship the day
before.

" That information touched me but little. Believing
in heredity in moderation, I knew well how sea-life
fashions a man outwardly and stamps his soul with the
mark of a certain prosaic fitness — because a sailor is not
an adventurer. I expressed no regret at missing
Captain Anthony, and we proceeded in silence till, on
approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne suddenly and un-
expectedly broke it by the hurried declaration that he
would go on with me a little farther.

"'Go with you to your door,' he mumbled, and
started forward to the little gate where the shadowy

48 CHANCE

figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the look out for
him. She was alone. The children must have been
already in bed, and I saw no attending girl-friend
shadow near her vague but unmistakable form, half -lost
in the obscurity of the little garden.

"I heard Fyne exclaim 'Nothing,' and then Mrs.
Fyne's well-trained, responsible voice uttered the words,
'It's what I have said,' with incisive equanimity. By
that time I had passed on, raising my hat. Almost at
once Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my stroll-
ing gait which must have been infinitely irksome to his
high pedestrian faculties. I am sure that all his
muscular person must have suffered from awful physical
boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away by
conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary
silence. And I was bored too. Suddenly I perceived
the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! He was so
silent because he had something to tell me.

"I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless
animal, is so made that in him curiosity, the paltriest
curiosity, will overcome all terrors, every disgust, and
even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come
in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented :
'Thanks, I will,' as though it were a response in chupch.
His face as seen in the lamplight gave me no clue to the
character of the impending communication; as indeed
from the nature of things it couldn't do, its normal
expression being already that of the utmost possible
seriousness. It was perfect and immovable; and for a
certainty if he had something excruciatingly funny to
tell me it would be all the same.

"He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of
some weighty remarks on Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend,
counsel, and guide young girls of all sorts on the path
q£ life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 49

wife's action and also her views and principles in
general.

"All this with a solemn countenance and in deep
measured tones. Yet somehow I got an irresistible
conviction that he was exasperated by something in
particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by
the misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-
blank what was wrong now.

"What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing.
She had been missing precisely since six o'clock that
morning. The woman who did the work of the cottage
saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The
pedestrian Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but
the girl did not turn up for lunch, nor yet for tea, nor
yet for dinner. She had not turned up by footpath,
road or rail. He had been reluctant to make inquiries.
It would have set all the village talking. The Fynes
had expected her to reappear every moment, till the
shades of the night and the silence of slumber had
stolen gradually over the wide and peaceful rural land-
scape commanded by the cottage.

"After telling me that much, Fyne sat helpless in un-
conclusive agony. Going to bed was out of the ques-
tion — neither could any steps be taken just then. What
to do with himself he did not know!

"I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a
day or two before I went to town? He really could not
remember. Was she a girl with dark hair and blue
eyes? I asked further. He really couldn't tell what
colour her eyes were. He was very unobservant except
as to the peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an
authority.

"I thought with amazement and some admiration
that Mrs. Fyne's young disciples were to her husband's
gravity no more than evanescent shadows. However,

50 CHANCE

with but little hesitation Fyne venture to affirm that—
yes, her hair was of some dark shade.

"'We had a good deal to do with that girl first and
last,' he explained solemnly; then getting up as if
moved by a spring, he snatched his cap off the table.
'She may be back in the cottage,' he cried in his bass
'/oice. I followed him out on the road.

"It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, op-
pressing our spirit, crushing our pride, by the brilliant
evidence of the awful loneliness, of the hopeless obscure
insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid revelation
of a glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies.
Daylight is friendly to man toiling under a sun which
warms his heart; and cloudy soft nights are more kindly
to our littleness. I nearly ran back again to my lighted
parlour; Fyne fussing in a knickerbocker suit before the
hosts of heaven, on a shadowy earth, about a transient,
phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate
with. On the other hand there was something fas-
cinating in the very absurdity. He cut along in
his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in
for a spell of severe exercise at eleven o'clock at
night.

"In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and
blotching the vast obscurity, one lighted window of the
cottage with the blind up was like a bright beacon kept
alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the table
bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded
arms and not a hair of her head out of place. She
looked exactly like a governess who had put the children
to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral
manner of a governess. To her husband, too, for that
matter.

"Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a
muscle of her ruddy, smooth, handsome face moved.

THE PYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 51

She had schooled herself into that sort of thing. Hav-
ing seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied
and worried into their graves, she had adopted that
cool, detached manner to meet her gifted father's out-
breaks of selfish temper. It had now become a second
nature. I suppose she was always like that; even in the
very hour of elopement with Fyne. That transaction
when one remembered it in ,her presence acquired a
quaintly marvellous aspect to one's imagination. But
sotnehow her self-possession matched very well little
Fyne's invariable solemnity.

"I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried ! The
agony of solemnity. At the same time I was amused. I
didn't take a gloomy view of that 'vanishing girl'
trick. Somehow I couldn't. But I said nothing.
None of us said anything. We sat about that big
round table as if assembled for a conference and looked
at each other in a sort of fatuous consternation. I
would have ended by laughing outright if I had not
been saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne be-
coming preposterous.

"He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the
police in the morning, of printing descriptive bills, of
setting people to drag the ponds for miles around,
ft was extremely gruesome. I murmured something
about communicating with the young lady's relatives.
It seemed to me a very natural suggestion; but Fyne
and his wife exchanged such a significant glance that I
felt as though I had made a tactless remark.

"But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could
see that, manlike, he suffered from the present inability
to act, the passive waiting, I said: 'Nothing of this
can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given me
an insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you
what may be done at once. We may go and look at the

52 CHANCE

bottom of the old quarry which is on the level of the
road, about a mile from here.'

"The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told
them of my meeting with the girl. You may be sur-
prised, but I assure you I had not perceived this aspect
of it till that very moment. It was like a startling
revelation; the past throwing a sinister light on the
luture. Fyne opened his mouth gravely and as gravely
shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, 'You had
better go,' with an air as if her self-possession had been
pricked with a pin in some secret place.

"And I — you know how stupid I can be at times — I
perceived with dismay for the first time that by pan-
dering to Fyne's morbid fancies I had let myself in for
some more severe exercise. And wasn't I sorry I spoke !
You know how I hate walking — at least on solid, rural
earth; for I can walk a ship's deck a whole foggy night
through, if necessary, and think little of it. There is
some satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the
streets of a big town till the sky pales above the ridges of
the roofs. I have done that repeatedly for pleasure — of
a sort. But to tramp the slumbering country-side in
the dark is for me a wearisome nightmare of exertion.

" With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go
out after her husband. That woman was flint.

" The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods
like a grave — an association particularly odious to a
sailor by its idea of confinement and narrowness; yes,
even when he has given up the hope of being buried at
sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously
after he has been, as it does happen, decoyed by some
chance into the toils of the land. A strong grave-like
sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must have been
freshly dug in front of the cottage.

i THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 53

"Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a
racing cutter. What was a mile to him — or twenty
miles? You think he might have gone shrinkingly on
such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of
pedestrian genius, I suppose. I raced by his side in a
mood of profound self -derision, and infinitely vexed
with that minx. Because dead or alive, I thought of
her as a minx. . . ."

I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but
Marlow, pausing with a whimsically retrospective air,
never flinched.

"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked.
You see, you are such a chivalrous masculine beggar.
But there is enough of the woman in my nature to free
my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And
then, why should I upset myself? A woman is not
necessarily either a doll or an angel to me. She is a
human being, very much like myself. And I have come
across too many dead souls lying, so to speak, at the
foot of high unscalable places for a merely possible
dead body at the bottom of a quarry to strike my
sincerity dumb.

" The cliff -like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly
impressive. I will admit that Fyne and I hung back
for a moment before we made a plunge off the road into
the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the
towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy
with dew. There were also concealed mudholes in
there. We crept and tumbled and felt about with our
hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and
plastered with mire all over our nether garments.
Fyne fell suddenly into a strange cavity — probably a
disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in grave distress
sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound.
This was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situa-

54 CHANCE

tion. While hauling him out I permitted myself to
laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, didn't.

" Ineednot tell you that we found nothing after a most
conscientious search. Fyne even pushed his way into a
decaying shed half-buried in dew-soaked vegetation.
He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make
absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife
was not hiding there. The short flares illuminated his
grave, immovable countenance, while I let myself go
completely and laughed in peals.

" I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any
sane girl would go and hide in that shed; and if so, why?

"Disdainful of my mirth, he merely muttered his
basso-profundo thankfulness that we had not found her
anywhere about there. Having grown extremely
sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may
say, of this affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect,
reserved thankfulness, with one eye still on the possibili-
ties of the several ponds in the neighbourhood. And I
remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that poor
Fyne.

" What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walk-
ing. Differences in politics, in ethics, and even in
aesthetics need not arouse angry antagonism. One's
opinion may change; one's tastes may alter — in fact
they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the
mercy of some felicitous temptation which may be
sprung on one any day. All these things are perpetu-
ally on the swing. But a temperamental difference,
temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate.
That's why religious quarrels are the fiercest of all.
My temperament, in matters pertaining to solid land,
is the temperament of leisurely movement, of deliberate
gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along
the road in a most offensive manner; a man wedded to

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 55

thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my temperament
demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course
there could never have been question of friendship
between us; but under the provocation of having to
keep up with his pace I began to dislike him actively.
I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell me
if we were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted
to regulate my feelings which, I told him, were in an
unbecoming state of confusion.

" But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle.
He tramped on, and all he did was to ejaculate twice out
of his deep chest, vaguely, doubtfully —

'" I am afraid. • . . . I am afraid! . . .'

"This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the
only sound in a shadowy world. I kept by his side with
a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By a strange
illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low
stars at no very great distance, but as we advanced new
stretches of whitey-brown ribbon seemed to come up
from under the black ground. I observed, as we went
by, the lamp in my parlour in the farm-house still
burning. But I did not leave Fyne to run in and put
it out. The impetus of his pedestrian excellence carried
me past in his wake before I could make up my mind.

'"Tell me, Fyne,' I cried, 'you don't think the girl
was mad— do you?'

" He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like
window of the cottage came into view. Then Fyne
uttered a solemn 'Certainly not,' with profound assur-
ance. But immediately after he added a 'Very highly
strung young person indeed,' which unsettled me again.
Was it a tragedy?

"'Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to
commit suicide,' I declared crustily. 'It's unheard of!
This is a farce.'

56 CHANCE

"As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy.

"Coming up to thecottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne
inside, still sitting in the strong light at the round table
with folded arms. It looked as though she had not
moved her very head by as much as an inch since we
went away. She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle
Way; crudely amazing — I thought. Why crudely? I
don't know. Perhaps because I saw her then in a crude
light. I mean this materially — in the light of an un-
shaded lamp. Our mental conclusions depend so much
on momentary physical sensations — don't they? If
the lamp had been shaded I should perhaps have gone
home after expressing politely my concern at the
Fyne's unpleasant predicament.

Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It
is also mysterious. So mysterious that a certain
mystery attaches to the people to whom such a thing
does happen. Moreover, I had never really understood
the Fynes; he with his solemnity which extended to the
very eating of bread and butter; she with that air of
detachment and resolution in breasting the common-
place current of their unexciting life, in which the cut-
ting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a long way,
the most dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused
myself by supposing that to their minds this world of
ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming aspect
and that their heads contained respectively awfully
serious and extremely desperate thoughts — and trying
to imagine what an exciting time they must be having
of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. My
efforts had invested them with a sort of profundity.

"But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in
the searching, domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to
the play of fancy, I saw these two stripped of every
vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 51

Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that
isn't that — more or less secretly? But whatever their
secret, it was manifest to me that it was neither subtle
nor profound. They were a good, stupid, earnest
eouple and very much bothered. They were that —
with the usual unshaded crudity of average people.
There was nothing in them that the lamplight might
not touch without the slightest risk of indiscretion.

" Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced
the result by saying 'Nothing' in the same tone as at
the gate on his return from the railway station. And
as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive 'It's what I've
said,' which might have been the veriest echo of her
words in the garden. We three looked at each other as
if on the brink of a disclosure. I don't know whether
she was vexed at my presence. It could hardly be
called intrusion — could it? Little Fyne began it. It
had to go on. We stood before her, plastered with the
same mud (Fyne was a sight!), scratched by the same
brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes.
Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms,
with an extraordinary fullness of assumed responsibility.
I addressed her.

"'You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do
you?'

" She shook her head in curt negation, while, caked in
mud and inexpressibly serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be
backing her up with all the weight of his solemn pres-
ence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It
was delicious. And I went on in deferential accents:
'Am I to understand then that you entertain the
theory of suicide?'

"I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium, but
by a sudden and alarming aberration while waiting for
her answer I became mentally aware of three trained

58 CHANCE

dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why.
Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. There's
nothing more solemn on earth than a dance of trained
dogs.

"'She has chosen to disappear. That's all.'

"In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The ag-
gressive tone was too much for my endurance. In an
instant I found myself out of the dance and down on all-
fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite.

"'The devil she has,' I cried. 'Has chosen to. . . .
Like this, all at once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've
had the privilege of meeting that reckless and brusque
young lady, and I must say that with her air of an angry
victim . . .'

"'Precisely,' Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like
a steel trap going off. I stared at her. How provoking
she was! So I went on to finish my tirade. 'She
struck me at first sight as the most wrong-headed in-
considerate girl that I ever . . .'

'"Why should a girl be more considerate than any
one else? More than any man, for instance?' inquired
Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of responsibility
in her bearing.

"Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is
true, but forcibly. Were, then, the feelings of friends,
relations, and even of strangers, to be disregarded? I
asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of
duty to show elementary consideration, not only for the
natural feelings, but even for the prejudices of one's
fellow-creatures .

"Her answer knocked me over.

" 'Not for a woman.'

"Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And
while in that collapsed state I learned the true nature of
Mrs. Fyne's feminist doctrine. It was not political.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRLFRIEND 59

it was not social. It was a knock-me-down doctrine —
a practical individualistic doctrine. You would not
thank me for expounding it to you at large. Indeed I
think that she herself did not enlighten me fully. There
must have been things not fit for a man to hear. But
shortly, and as far as my bewilderment allowed me to
grasp its naive atrociousness, it was something like
this: that no consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness,
no scruples should stand in the way of a woman (who
by the mere fact of her sex was the predestined victim of
conditions created by men's selfish passions, their vices
and their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest
cut towards securing for herself the easiest possible
existence. She had even the right to go out of existence
without considering any one's feelings or convenience,
since s&me women's existences were made impossible
hy the short-sighted baseness of men.

" I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock
in the morning, with her mature, smooth-cheeked face
of masculine shape robbed of its freshness by fatigue;
at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I looked
also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was ob-
viously tired. The weariness of solemnity. But he
preserved an unflinching, endorsing gravity of ex-
pression. Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced
husband.

"'Oh! I see,' I said. 'No consideration. . . .
Well, I hope you like it.'

"They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of
which I was capable. After the first shock, you under-
stand, I recovered very quickly. The order of the
world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she
his good and faithful wife. But when it comes to
dealing with human beings anything, anything may be
expected. So even my astonishment did not last very

60 CHANCE

long. How far she developed and illustrated that
conscienceless and austere doctrine to the girl-friends,
who were mere transient shadows to her husband,
I could not tell. Any length I supposed. And he
looked on, acquiesced, approved, just for that very
reason — because these pretty girls were but shadows to
him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes
down. He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden
animosity, for he had got me to run after him under
somewhat false pretences.

"Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively,
very self -confidently. 'Oh, I quite understand that
you accept the fullest responsibility,' I said. 'I am
the only ridiculous person in this — this — I don't know
how to call it — performance. However, I've nothing
more to do here, so I'll say good-night — or good morn-
ing, for it must be past one.'

"But before departing, in common decency, I offered
to take any wires they might write. My lodgings were
nearer the post office than the cottage and I would send
them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed
they would wish to communicate, if only as to the dis-
posal of the luggage, with the young lady's rela-
tives . . .

" Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked
me and declined.

"There is really no one,' he said, very grave.

'"No one,' I exclaimed.

"'Practically,' said curt Mrs. Fyne.

'And my curiosity was aroused again.
'Ah! I see. An orphan.'

"Mrs. Fyne looked away, weary and sombre, and
Fyne said 'Yes' impulsively, and then qualified the
affirmative by the quaint statement: 'To a certain
extent'

"«

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 61

"I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embar-
rassment, bowed to Mrs. Fyne, and went out to the
cottage to be confronted outside its door by the be-
spangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the
Universe. The night was not sufficiently advanced for
the stars to have paled; and the earth seemed to me
more profoundly asleep — perhaps because I was alone
now. Not having Fyne with me to set the pace, I let
myself drift, rather than walk, in the direction of the
farm-house. To drift is the only reposeful sort of
motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and therefore consistent
with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How can one
be an orphan 'to a certain extent?'

"No amount of solemnity could make such a statement
other than bizarre. What a strange condition to be in.
Very likely one of the parents only was dead? But no;
it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that
'there was really no one' to communicate with. No
one! And then remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy
'Practically,' my thoughts fastened upon that lady as
a more tangible object of speculation.

"I wondered — and wondering, I doubted — whether
she really understood herself the theory she had pro-
pounded to me. Everything may be said — indeed
ought to be said — providing we know how to say it.
She probably did not. She was not intelligent enough
for that. She had no knowledge of the world. She
had got hold of words as a child might get hold of some
poisonous pills and play with them for 'dear, tiny little
marbles.' No! The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon
Anthony and the little Fyne of the Civil Service (that
flower of civilization) were not intelligent people. They
were commonplace, earnest, without smiles and without
guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her
reveries, her lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I

62 CHANCE

thought with some sadness that all these revolts and
indignations, all these protests, revulsions of feeling,
pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the un-
easiness of sensual beings trying for their share in the
joys of form, colour, sensations — the only riches of our
world of senses. A poet may be a simple being, but he
is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious and
irritable. I reflected on the variety of ways the in-
genuity of the late bard of civilization would be able to
invent for the tormenting of his dependants. Poets not
being generally f oresighted in practical affairs, no vision
of consequences would restrain him. Yes. The Fynes
were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn't the
daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing. There
were no limits to her revolt. But they were excellent
people. It was clear that they must have been ex-
tremely good to that girl whose position in the world
seemed somewhat difficult, with her face of a victim,
her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre status of
orphan 'to a certain extent.'

"Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to
trouble about all these people. I found that my lamp
had gone out, leaving behind an awful smell. I fled
from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My
slumbers — I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise,
confound it, is that it helps our natural callousness — my
slumbers were deep, dreamless and refreshing.

"My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my
ignorance of the facts, motives, events and conclusions.
I think that to understand everything is not good for
the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the
impulse to action; an overstocked one leads gently to
idiocy. But Mrs. Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine,
naively unscrupulous, flitted through my mind. The
salad of unprincipled notions she put into these girl-

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 63

friends' heads! Good innocent creature, worthy wife,
excellent mother (of the strict governess type), she was
as guileless of consequences as any determinist philoso-
pher ever was.

"As to honour — you know — it's a very fine mediaeval
inheritance which women never got hold of. It wasn't
theirs. Since it may be laid as a general principle that
women always get what they want, we must suppose
they didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of
decency. I mean masculine decency. Cautiousness
too is foreign to them — the heavy reasonable cautious-
ness which is our glory. And if they had it they would
make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother — I
mean the mother of cautiousness — wouldn't recognize
it. Prudence with them is a matter of thrill like the
rest of sublunary contrivances. 'Sensation at any
cost,' is their secret device. All the virtues are not
enough for them; they want also all the crimes for their
own. And why? Because in such completeness there
is power — the kind of thrill they love most. . . ."

"Do you expect me to agree with all this?" I
interrupted.

"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow feeling the
check to his eloquence, but with a great effort at
amiability. "You need not even understand it. I
continue: with such disposition, what prevents women
— to use the phrase an old boatswain of my acquaint-
ance applied descriptively to his captain — what pre-
vents them from ' coming on deck and playing hell with
the ship' generally, is that something in them precise
and mysterious, acting both as restraint and as inspira- 1
tion; their femininity, in short, which they think they
can get rid of by trying hard, but can't, and never will.
Therefore we may conclude that, for all their enter-
prises, the world is and remains safe enough. Feeling,

64 CHANCE

in my character of a lover of peace, soothed by that
conclusion, I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day.

"And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror
of the Infinite veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day
innocently bright like a child with a washed face, fresh
like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming one's
respects like — like a Roman prelate. I love such days.
They are perfection for remaining indoors. And I en-
joyed it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on
the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and the
murmured harmonies of wind and sun in my heart
making an accompaniment to the rhythms of my au-
thor. Then looking up from the page I saw outside a
pair of grey eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white
eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my
slippers. There was a grave, furrowed brow surmount-
ing that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap set far
back on the perspiring head.

" ' Come inside,' I cried as heartily as my sinking heart
would permit.

"After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the
outer door, Fyne entered. I treated him without
ceremony and only waved my hand towards a chair.
Even before he sat down he gasped out —

"'We've heard — midday post.'

"Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the
Civil Service gasped! This was enough, you'll admit,
to cause me to put my feet to the ground swiftly. That
fellow was always making me do things in subtle dis-
cord with my meditative temperament. No wonder
that I had but a qualified liking for him. I said with
just a suspicion of jeering tone —

"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it
was a farce we were engaged in.'

54 He made the little parlour resound to its foundations

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 65

with a note of anger positively sepulchral in its depth of
tone. 'Farce be hanged! She has bolted with my
wife's brother, Captain Anthony.' This outburst was
followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miser-
ably as he added from force of habit: 'The son of the
poet, you know.'

"A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so
many examples of varied consistency. This was the
discomfiture of solemnity. My interest of course was
revived.

"'But hold on,' I said. 'They didn't go together.
Is it a suspicion or does she actually say that. . . .'
She has gone after him,' stated Fyne in commina-
tory tones. 'By previous arrangement. She con-
fesses that much.'

"He added that it was very shocking. I asked him
whether he should have preferred them going off to-
gether; and on what ground he based that preference.
This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that
Fyne's too was a runaway match, which even got into
the papers in its time, because the late indignant poet
had no discretion and sought to avenge this outrage
publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge.
The dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed my
mocking mood. But I could not help expressing my
surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at once what
was brewing. Women were supposed to have an un-
erring eye.

" He told me that his wife had been very much engaged
in a certain work. I had always wondered how she
occupied her time. It was in writing. Like her hus-
band, she too published a little book. It had nothing
to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of handbook
for women with grievances (and all women had them),
a sort of compendious theory and practice of feminine

66 CHANCE

free morality. It made you laugh at its transparent
simplicity. But that authorship was revealed to me
much later. I didn't of course ask Fyne what work his
wife was engaged on; but I marvelled to myself at her
complete ignorance of the world, of her own sex, and of
the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could she have
got any experience? Her father had kept her strictly
cloistered. Marriage with Fyne was certainly a change,
but only to another kind of claustration. You may
tell me that the ordinary powers of observation ought
to have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she
had set up for a guide and teacher, there was nothing
surprising for me in the discovery that she was blind.
That's quite in order. She was a profoundly innocent
person; only it would not have been proper to tell her
husband so.

CHAPTER THREE

THRIFT — AND THE CHILD

"But there was nothing improper in my observing to
Fyne that,, last night, Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some
idea where that enterprising young lady had gone to.
Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no
means so certain as she had pretended to be. She
merely had her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl
might have taken a room somewhere in London, had
buried herself in town — in readiness or perhaps in
horror of the approaching day

"He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown
study. 'What day?' I asked at last; but he did not
hear me apparently. He diffused such portentous
gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with
him.

"'What on earth are you so dismal about?' I cried,
being genuinely surprised and puzzled. 'One would
think the girl was a state prisoner under your care.'

"And suddenly I became still more surprised at my-
self, at the way I had somehow taken for granted things
which did appear queer when one thought them out. <

'"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope — if it
is an elopement? Was the girl afraid of your wife?
And your brother-in-law? What on earth possessed
him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid
of your wife too?'

"Fyne made an effort to rouse himself.

"'Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the

67

68 ^CHANCE

son of . . .' He checked himself as if trying to
break a bad habit. 'He would be persuaded by her.
We have been most friendly to the girl!'

'"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little
person. But why should you and your wife take to
heart so strongly mere folly — or even a want of con-
sideration?'

- '"It's the most unscrupulous action,' declared Fyne
weightily — and sighed.

1 '"I suppose she is poor,' I observed after a short
silence. 'But after all . . .'

"'You don't know who she is.' Fyne had regained
his average solemnity.

" I confessed that I had not caught her name when his
wife had introduced us to each other. 'It was some-
thing beginning with an S — wasn't it? ' And then with
the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not
matter. The name was not her name.

"'Do you mean to say that you made a young lady
known to me under a false name?' I asked, with the
amused feeling that the days of wonders and portents
had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious
Fyne should do such an exceptional thing was simply
staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual
little Fyne was sure that I would not demand an
apology for this irregularity if I knew what her real
name was. A sort? of warmth crept into his deep
tone.

"'We have tried to befriend that girl in every way.
She is the daughter and only child of de Barra.],'

"Evidently he'expected to produce a sensation; but I
merely returned his intense, awaiting gaze. For a
time we stared at each other. Conscious of being
reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of my
mind: De Barral, de Barral — and all at once noise and

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 69

light burst on me as if a window of my memory had been
suddenly flung open on a street in the City. De
Barral ! But could it be the same? Surely not!
'The financier?' I suggested half incredulous.

"'Yes,' said Fyne; and in this instance his native
solemnity of tone seemed to be strangely appropriate.
'The convict.'"

Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in
an explanatory tone —

" One somehow never thought of de Barral as having
any children, or any other home than the offices of the
'Orb'; or any other existence, associations or interests
than financial. I see you remember the crash . . ."

"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said.
"But of course "

"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world. . .
¥ou may wonder at my slowness in recognizing the
name. But you know that my memory is merely a-
mausoleum of proper names. In de Barral's case, it got
put away in my mausoleum in company with so many
names of his own creation that really he had to throw
off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood be-
fore me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had
a pretty fancy in names: the 'Orb' Deposit Bank,
the 'Sceptre' Mutual Aid Society, the 'Thrift and
Independence' Association. Yes, a very pretty taste
in names; and nothing else besides — absolutely nothing
— no other merit. Well, yes. He had another name,
but that's pure luck — his own name of de Barral which
he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or
Brown could have fished out from the depths of the
Incredible such a colossal manifestation of human folly
as that man did. But it may be that I am under-
estimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the
bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that absurd

70 CHANCE

monster is incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable.
The career of de Barral demonstrates that it will rise to
a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale. He
hadn't enough imagination for it . . ."

"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a
French name. I suppose it was his name? "

"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in
Bethnal Green, as it came out during the proceedings.
He was in the habit of alluding to his Scotch connections.
But every great man has done that. The mother, I be-
lieve, was Scotch, right enough. The father, de Barral,
whatever his origins, retired from the Customs Service
(tide-waiter I think), and started lending money in a
very, very small way in the East End to people con-
nected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners,
ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry.
He made his living at it. He was a very decent man, I
believe. He had enough influence to place his only son
as junior clerk in the account department of one of the
Dock Companies. 'Now, my boy,' he said to him,
'I've given you a fine start.' But de Barral didn't
start. He stuck. He gave perfect satisfaction. At
the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and
went out courting in the evenings. He went courting
the daughter of an old sea-captain who was a church-
warden of his parish and lived in an old badly preserved
Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses
standing in a reduced bit of "grounds" that you dis-
cover in a labyrinth of the most sordid streets, exactly
alike and composed of six-roomed hutches.

"Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes.
The old sailor had got hold of one cheap, and de Barral
got hold of his daughter — which was a good bargain for
him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple
and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 71

equable, unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of
simple gaiety, and with no ambitions; but, woman-like,
she longed for change and for something interesting to
happen now and then. It was she who encouraged de
Barral to accept the offer of a post in the West-End
branch of a great bank. It appears he shrank from such
a great adventure for a long time. At last his wife's
arguments prevailed. Later she used to say: 'It's
the only time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now
if it hadn't been better for me to die before I ever made
him go into that bank.'

"You may be surprised at my knowledge of these de-
tails. Well, I had them ultimately from Mrs. Fyne.
Mrs. Fyne, while yet Miss Anthony, in her days of
bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile.
Mrs. de Barral was living then in a big stone mansion
with mullioned windows in a large damp park, called
the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet
had built himself a house.

"These were the days of de Barral's success. He had
bought the place without ever seeing it and had packed
off his wife and child at once there to take possession.
He did not know what to do with them in London. He
himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there
dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He
had developed the gambling passion — or else a mere
card mania — but at any rate he played heavily, for
relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on.

"Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day,
lived at the Priory, with a carriage and pair, a governess
for the child and many servants. The village people
would see her through the railings wandering under the
trees with her little girl, lost in her strange surround-
ings. Nobody ever came near her. And there she
died as some faithful and delicate animals die — from

n CHANCE

i

neglect, absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly
and without any fuss. The village was sorry for her be-
cause, though obviously worried about something she
was good to the poor and was always ready for a chat
with any of the humble folks. Of course they knew
that she wasn't a lady— not what you would call a real
lady. And even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony
was only a cottage-door, a village-street acquaintance.
Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat (his
father had been a 'restoring' architect), and his
daughter was not allowed to associate with any one but
the county young ladies. Nevertheless, in defiance of
the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled refinement,
there were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in
the great avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate,
during which Mrs. de Barral came to call Miss Anthony
'my dear' — and even 'my poor dear.' The lonely
soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl.
The governess despised her. The housekeeper was
distant in her manner. Moreover Mrs. de Barral was
no foolish gossiping woman. But she made some con-
fidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific
thing to have thrust upon one, she affirmed. Once she
went so far as to confess that she was dying with
anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) had
been an excellent husband and an exemplary father,
but 'you see, my dear, I have had a great experience of
him. I am sure he won't know what to do with all that
money people are giving to him to take care of for them.
He's as likely as not to do something rash. When he
comes here I must have a good long serious talk with
him, like the talks we often used to have together in the
good old times of our life.' And then one day a cry
of anguish was wrung from her: 'My dear, he will
never come here, he will never, never come!*

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 73

"She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was ex-
tremely cut up, and holding the child tightly by ths
hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. Miss
Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse
from the poet, saw it all with her own eyes. De Barral
clung to the child like a drowning man. He managed,
though, to catch the half-past five fast train, travelling
to town alone in a reserved compartment, with all the
blinds down . . ."

"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively.

"Yes. Leaving ... He shirked the problem.
He was born that way. He had no idea what to do with
her or for that matter with anything or anybody in-
cluding himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms
in the hotel. He was the most helpless . . . She
might have been left in the Priory to the end of time had
not the high-toned governess threatened to send in her
resignation. She didn't care for the child a bit, and the
lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. She
wasn't going to put up with such a life and, having just
come out of some ducal family, she bullied de Barral in
a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he took a splendidly
furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton
for them, and now and then ran down for a week-end,
with a trunk full of exquisite sweets and with his hat full
of money. The governess spent it for him in extra
ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a sec-
ret taste for patronizing young men of sorts — of a cer-
tain sort. But of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no
personal knowledge then; she told me, however, that
even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being
an artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the
lowest possible ideals. But de Barral did not know it.
He literally did not know anything . . ."

"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you

74 CHANCE

account for this opinion? He must have been a person-
ality in a sense — in some one sense surely. You don't
work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least,
in a commercial community, without having something
in you."

Marlow shook his head.

"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing
in him. Just about that time the word Thrift was to
the fore. You know the power of words. We pass
through periods dominated by this or that word — it
may be development, or it may be competition, or
education, or purity, or efficiency, or even sanctity. It
is the word of the time. Well, just then it was the word
Thrift which was out m the streets walking arm in arm
with righteousness, the inseparable companion and
backer up of all such national catch-words, looking
everybody in the eye as it were. The very drabs of the
pavement, poor things, didn't escape the fascination.
. . . However! . . . Well, the greatest portion
of the press was screeching in all possible tones, like a
confounded company of parrots instructed by some
devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier
de Barral was helping the great moral evolution of our
character towards the newly discovered virtue of Thrift.
He was helping it by all these great establishments of
his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest
to the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay
ten per cent, interest on all deposits. And you didn't
want necessarily to belong to the well-to-do classes in
order to participate in the advantages of virtue. If
you had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and
gave it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely that
he himself believed it. He must have. It's inconceiv-
able that he alone should stand out against the in-
fatuation of the whole world. He hadn't enough

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 75

intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn't
tell . . ."

"You did see him then? " I said with some curiosity.

"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, in the
days of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of these
words will fit his success. There was never any glory
or splendour about that figure. Well, let us say in the
days when he was*, according to the majority of the daily
press, a financial force working for the improvement of
the character of the people. I'll tell you how it came
about.

"At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald
little man having chambers in the Albany; a financier,
too, in his way, carrying out transactions of an intimate
nature and of no moral character; mostly with young
men of birth and expectations — though I dare say he
didn't withhold his ministrations from elderly plebeians
either. He was a true democrat; he would have done
business (a sharp kind of business) with the devil him-
self. Everything was fly that came into his web. He
received the applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which
was quite surprising. It gave relief without giving too
much confidence, which was just as well perhaps. His
business was transacted in an apartment furnished like
a drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown,
heavily framed, oil paintings. I don't know if they
were good, but they were big, and with their elaborate,
tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The
man himself sat at an inlaid writing-table which looked
like a rare piece from a museum of art; his chair had a
high, oval, carved back, upholstered in faded tapestry;
and these objects made of the costly black Havana
cigar, which he rolled incessantly from the middle to
the left corner of his mouth and back again, an in-
expressibly cheap and nasty object. I had to see hira

76 CHANCE

several times in the interest of a poor devil so unlucky
that he didn't even have a more competent friend than
myself to speak for him at a very difficult time in his
life.

"I don't know at what hour my private financier began
his day, but he used to give one appointments at un-
heard of times: such as a quarter to eight in the morn-
ing, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at
that marvellous writing-table, looking very fresh, ex-
haling a faint fragrance of scented soap and with the
cigar already well alight. You may believe that I
entered on my mission with many unpleasant fore-
bodings; but there was in that fat, admirably washed,
little man such a profound contempt for mankind that
it amounted to a species of good nature; which, unlike
the milk of genuine kindness, was never in danger of
turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in business,
while we were waiting for the production of a docu-
ment for which he had sent (perhaps to the cellar?)
I happened to remark, glancing round the room, that
I had never seem so many fine things assembled to-
gether out of a collection. Whether this was uncon-
scious diplomacy on my part, or not, I shouldn't like
to say — but the remark was true enough, and it pleased
him extremely. 'It is a collection,' he said emphati-
cally. 'Only I live right in it, which most collectors
don't. But I see that you know what you are looking
at. Not many people who come here on business do.
Stable fittings are more in their way.'

"I don't know whether my appreciation helped to
advance my friend's business, but at any rate it helped
our intercourse. He treated me with a shade of fa-
miliarity as one of the initiated.

"The last time I called on him to conclude the trans-
action we were interrupted by a person, something like,

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 77

a cross between a bookmaker and a private secretary,
who, entering through a doon which was not the ante-
room door, walked up and stooped to whisper into his
ear.

"'Eh? Who, did you say?'

"The nondescript person stooped and whispered
again, adding a little louder: 'Says he won't detain
you a moment.'

"My little man glanced at me, said 'Ah! Well,'
irresolutely. I got up from my chair and offered to
come again later. He looked whimsically alarmed.
'No, no. It's bad enough to lose my money, but I
don't want to waste any more of my time over your
friend. We must be done with this to-day. Just go
and have a look at that garniture de cheminee yonder.
There's another, something like it, in the castle of
Laeken, but mine's much superior in design.'

"I moved accordingly to the other side of that big
room. The garniture was very fine. But while pre-
tending to examine it I watched my man going forward
to meet a tall visitor, who said, 'I thought you would
be disengaged so early. It's only a word or two ' — and
after a whispered confabulation of no more than a
minute, reconduct him to the door and shake hands
ceremoniously. 'Not at all, not at all. Very pleased
to be of use. You can depend absolutely on my in-
formation' — 'Oh thank you, thank you. I just looked
in.' ' Certainly, quite right. Anytime. . . . Good
morning.'

"I had a good look at the visitor while they were
exchanging these civilities. He was clad in black. He
wore a flat, broad, black satin tie in which was stuck
a large cameo pin; and a small turn-down collar. His
hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly over his ears.
His cheeks were hairless and round, and apparently

78 CHANCE

soft. He carried himself stiffly, walked with small steps
and spoke in a gentle, jnward voice. Perhaps from
contrast with the magnificent polish of the room and
the neatness of its owner, he struck me as indigent, and,
if not exactly humble, then much subdued by evil for-
tune.

"I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility
to that dubious personage when he asked me, as we re-
sumed our respective seats, whether I knew who it was
that had just gone out. On my shaking my head
negatively he smiled queerly, said 'De Barral,' and
enjoyed my surprise. Then becoming grave : ' That's
a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he started
from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he
means to do.' He became thoughtful for a moment
and added as if speaking to himself, 'I wonder what his
game is.'

"And, you know, there was no game, no game of any
sort, or shape, or kind. It came out plainly at the trial.
As I've told you before, he was a clerk in a bank, like
thousands of others. He got that berth as a second
start in life and there he stuck again, giving perfect
satisfaction. Then one day as though a supernatural
voice had whispered into his ear or some invisible fly
had stung him, he put on his hat,, went out into the
street and began advertising. That's absolutely all
that there was to it. He caught in the street the word
of the time and harnessed it to his preposterous chariot.

"One remembers his first modest advertisements
headed with the magic word Thrift, Thrift, Thrift,
thrice repeated; promising ten per cent, on all deposits
and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence
Aid Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently
nothing more was necessary. He didn't even explain
what he meant to do with the money he asked the pub-

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 79

lie to pour into his lap. Of course he meant to lend it
out at high rates of interest. He did so — but he did it
without system, plan, foresight or judgment. And as
he frittered away the sums that flowed in, he advertised
for more — and got it. During a period of general busi-
ness prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The
Sceptre Trust, simply, it seems, for advertising pur-
poses. They were mere names. He was totally unable
to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise
if it were only for the purpose of juggling with the
shares. At that time he could have had for the asking
any number of Dukes, retired Generals, active M.P.'s,
ex-ambassadors and so on as Directors to sit at the
wildest boards of his invention. But he never tried.
He had no real imagination. All he could do was to
publish more advertisements and open more branch
offices of the Thrift and Independence, of The Orb, of
The Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this
town, then in that town, north and south — everywhere
where he could find suitable premises at a moderate
rent. For this was the great characteristic of the
management. Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither
The Orb nor The Sceptre nor yet their parent the
Thrift and Independence had built for themselves
the usual palaces. For this abstention they were
praised in silly public prints as illustrating in their
management the principle of Thrift for which they were
founded. The fact is that de Barral simply didn't
think of it. Of course he had soon moved from Vaux-
hall Bridge Road. He knew enough for that. What
he got hold of next was an old, enormous, rat-infested
brick house in a small street off the Strand. Strangers
were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed,
•yellowy, flat brick wall, with two rows of unadorned
window-holes one above the other, and were exhorted

80 CHANCE

with bated breath to behold and admire the simplicity
of the head-quarters of the great financial force of the
day. The word thrift perched right up on the roof in
giant gilt letters, and two enormous shield-like brass-
plates curved round the corners on each side of the door-
way were the only shining spots in de Barral's business
outfit. Nobody knew what operations were carried on
inside except this — that if you walked in and tendered
your money over the counter it would be calmly taken
from you by somebody who would give you a printed
receipt. That and no more. It appears that such
knowledge is irresistible. People went in and tendered;
and once it was taken from their hands their money
was more irretrievably gone from them than if they had
thrown it into the sea. This then, and nothing else,
was being carried on in there . . ."

"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely —
if only by your way of putting things. It's too start-
ling."

"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of
putting things ! My dear fellow, I have merely stripped
the rags of business verbiage and financial jargon off
my statements. And you are startled! I am giving
you the naked truth. It's true too that nothing lays
itself open to the charge of exaggeration more than the
language of naked truth. What comes with a shock is
admitted with difficulty. But what will you say to the
end of his career ! It began with the Orb Deposit Bank.
Under the name of that institution de Barral, with the
frantic obstinacy of an unimaginative man, had been
financing an Indian prince who was prosecuting a claim
for immense sums of money against the government.
It was an enormous number of scores of lakhs — a
miserable remnant of his ancestors' treasures — that sort
of thing. And it was all authentic enough. There waa

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD si

a real prince; and the claim too was sufficiently real —
only unfortunately it was not a valid claim. So the
prince lost his case on the last appeal, and the beginning
of de Barral's end became manifest to the public in the
.shape of a half-sheet of note-paper wafered by the four
corners on the closed door of The Orb offices, notifying 1
that payment was stopped at that establishment.

"Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week.
I won't say in American parlance that suddenly the
bottom fell out of the whole of de Barral concerns.
There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the
cask of the Danaides into which the public had been
pleased to pour its deposits. That they were gone was
clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings which followed
were like a sinister farce, bursts of laughter in a setting
of mute anguish — that of the depositors; hundreds of
thousands of them. The laughter was irresistible; the
accompaniment of the bankrupt's public examination.

"I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagina-
tion or from the possession in undue proportion of a
particular kind of it, or from both — and the three alter-
natives are possible — but it was discovered that this
man who had been raised to such a height by the
credulity of the public was himself more gullible than
any of his depositors. He had been the prey of all
sorts of swindlers, adventurers, visionaries, and even
lunatics. Wrapping himself up in deep and imbecile
secrecy he had gone in for the most fantastic schemes:
a harbour and docks on the coast of Patagonia, quarries
in Labrador — such-like speculations. Fisheries to feed
a canning factory on the banks of the Amazon was one
of them. A principality to be bought in Madagascar
was another. As the grotesque details of these in-
credible transactions came out, one by one, ripples of
laughter ran over the closely packed court — each one a

82 CHANCE

little louder than the other. The audience ended by
fairly roaring under the cumulative effect of absurdity.
The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the
reporters laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable
depositors watching anxiously every word, laughed
like one man. They laughed hysterically — the poor
wretches — on the verge of tears.

"There was only one person who remained unmoved.
It was de Barral himself. He preserved his serene,
gentle expression, I am told (for I have not witnessed
those scenes myself), and looked around at the people
with an air of placid sufficiency which was the first hint
to the world of the man's overweening, unmeasurable
conceit, hidden hitherto under a diffident manner. It
could be seen too in his dogged assertion that if he had
been given enough time and a lot more money every-
thing would have come right. And there were some
people (yes, amongst his very victims) who more than
half believed him, even after the criminal prosecution
which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost
his steadinesj as if some sustaining illusion had gone to
pieces within him suddenly. He ceased to be himself
in manner completely, and even in disposition, in so far
that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured
hair so well, were discovered then to be capable of ex-
pressing a sort of underhand hate. He was at first de-
fiant, then insolent, then broke down and burst into
tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he
calmed down, returned to his soft manner of speech and
to that unassuming quiet bearing which had been usual
with him even in his greatest days. But it seemed as
though in this moment of change he had at last per-
ceived what a power he had been; for he remarked to
one of the prosecuting counsel who had assumed a lofty
moral tone in questioning him, that — yes, he had

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 83

gambled — he liked cards. But that only a year ago a
host of smart people would have been only too pleased
to take a hand at cards with him. Yes — he went on —
some of the very people who were there accommodated
with seats on the bench; and turning upon the counsel,
'You yourself as well,' he cried. He could have had
half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if he
had cared for that sort of thing. 'Why, now I think of
it, it took me most of my time to keep people, just of
your sort, off me,' he ended with a good-humoured,
quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had
dawned upon him for the first time.

"This was the moment, the only moment, when he had
perhaps all the audience in Court with him, in a hush of
dreary silence. And then the dreary proceedings were
resumed. For all the outside excitement it was the
most dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy
proceedings had exhausted all the laughter there was in
it. Only the fact of widespread ruin remained, and the
resentment of a mass of people for having been fooled
by means too simple to save their self-respect from a deep
wound which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel
would not have inflicted. A shamefaced amazement
attended these proceedings in which de Barral was not
being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was:
Time! Time! Time would have set everything right.
In time some of these speculations of his were certain to
have succeeded. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance
was ecstatic, his motionless pale eyes seemed to be
gazing down the vista of future ages. Time — and of
course, more money. "Ah! If only you had left me
alone for a couple of years more," he cried once in
accents of passionate belief. "The money was coming
in all right." The deposits you understand — the sav-
ings of Thrift. Oh yes they had been coming in to the

84 CHANCE

very last moment. And he regretted them. He had
arrived to regard them as his own by a sort of mystical
persuasion. And yet it was a perfectly true cry, when
he turned once more on the counsel who was beginning a
question with the words 'You have had all these im-
mense sums . . .' with the indignant retort, 'What
have I had out of them?'

"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of
them — nothing of the prestigious or the desirable things
of the earth, craved for by predatory natures. He had
gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built
no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries
out of these 'immense sums.' He had not even a
home. He had gone into these rooms in an hotel
and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt per-
fect satisfaction to the management. They had twice
raised his rent to show, I suppose, their high sense of his
distinguished patronage. He had bought for himself
out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers
neither adulation nor love, neither splendour nor com-
fort. There was something perfect in his consistent
mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the grat-
ification of even the mere show of power. In the
days when he was most fully in the public eye the in-
vincible obscurity of his origins clung to him like a
shadowy garment. He had handled millions without
ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious
in the community of men, because he had neither the
brutality of temperament nor the fineness of mind to
make him desire them with the will power of a master-
ful adventurer . . ."

"You seem to have studied the man," I observed.

"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No!
Not studied. I had no opportunities. You know that
I saw him only on that one occasion I told you of. But

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 85

it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way
of seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in
virtue of his very deficiencies, for they made of him
something quite unlike one's preconceived ideas. I
have not studied de Barral, but that is how I under-
stand him so far as he could be understood through the
din of the crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the
newspaper contents bills: 'The Thrift Frauds. Cross-
• examination of the accused. Extra special' — blazing
fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the grave
tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they
were the national bowels. All this lasted a whole week
of industrious sittings. A pressman whom I knew told
me, 'He's an idiot"; which was possible. Before thr\
I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a
criminal type of face; which I knew was untrue. The
sentence was pronounced by artificial light in a stifling
poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was said
by the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking
the perpetrator of 'the most heartless frauds on an
unprecedented scale.' I don't understand these things
much, but it appears that he had juggled with accounts,
cooked balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months
after he ought to have known himself to be hopelessly
insolvent, and done enough of other things, highly
reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for himself
seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its
way outside met with a good reception. A small mob
composed mainly of people who themselves did not look
particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened by a slight
sprinkling of genuine pickpockets, amused itself by
cheering in the most penetrating, abominable cold
drizzle that I remember. I happened to be passing
there on my way from the East End where I had spent
my day about the Docks with an old chum who was_

86 CHANCE

looking after the fitting out of a new ship. I am always
eager, when allowed, to call on a new ship. They inter-
est me like charming young persons.

"I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an
animosity as senseless as things of the street always are,
and it was while I was laboriously making my way out
of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled
against me. He did me the justice to be surprised.
'What? You here! The last person in the world . . .'
If I had known I could have got you inside. Plenty of
room. Interest been over for the last three days. Got
seven years. Well, I am glad.'

'"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?'
I asked, greatly incommoded by the pressure of a hulk-
ing fellow who was remarking to some of his equally
oppressive friends that the 'beggar ought to have been
poleaxed.' I don't know whether he had ever con-
fided his savings to de Barral, but if so, judging from
his appearance, they must have been the proceeds of
some successful burglary. The pressman by my side
said 'No' to my question. He was glad because it was
all over. He had suffered from the heat and the bad
air of the court. The clammy, raw chill of the streets
seemed to affect his liver instantly. He became
contemptuous and irritable, and plied his elbows
viciously, making way for himself and me.

"A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No
really dramatic moments. The book-keeping of The
Orb and all the rest of them was certainly a burlesque
revelation, but the public did not care for revelations of
that kind. Dull dog that de Barral — he grumbled. He
could not or would not take the trouble to characterize
for me the appearance of that man now officially a
criminal (we had gone across the road for a drink), but
told me with a sourly, derisive snigger that, after the

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 87

sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the
dock long enough to make a sort of protest. 'You
haven't given me time. If I had been given time I
would have ended by being made a peer like some of
them.' And he had permitted himself his very first
and last gesture in all these days, raising a hard-
clenched fist above his head.

"The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It
was not his business to understand it. Is it ever the
business of any pressman to understand anything? I
guess not. It would lead him too far away from the
actualities which are the daily bread of the public mind.
He probably thought the display worth very little from
a picturesque point of view; the weak voice, the colour-
less personality as incapable of an attitude as a bed-post,
the very fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at
that time and place — no, it wasn't worth much. And
then, for him, an accomplished craftsman in his trade,
thinking was distinctly 'bad business.' His business
was to write a readable account. But I, who had noth-
ing to write, permitted myself to use my mind as we sat
before our still untouched glasses. And the disclosure
which so often rewards a moment of detachment from
mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very much ap-
proaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that,
with the shock of the agonies and perplexities of his
trial, the imagination of that man, whose moods, no-
tions, and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque
mystery — that his imagination had been at last roused
into activity. And this was awful. Just try to enter
into the feelings of a man whose imagination wakes up at
the very moment he is about to enter the tomb. . . .

"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause,
"that on that morning with Fyne I went consciously in

88 CHANCE

my mind over all this, let us call it information; no,
better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or
rather which existed, in me in regard to de Barral.
Information is something one goes out to seek and puts
away when found as you might do a piece of lead : pon-
derous, useful, un vibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge
comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a chance ac-
quisition preserving in its repose a fine resonant quality.
. . . But as such distinctions touch upon the
transcendental I shall spare you the pain of listening to
them. There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn't
reckon up carefully in my mind all this I have been tell-
ing you. How could I have done so, with Fyne in the
room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in homely
fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective
assent: 'Yes. The convict,' and I, far from in-
dulging in a reminiscent excursion into the past, re-
mained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague,
absent-minded way on the respectable proportions and
on the (upon the whole) comely shape of his pedestrian's
calves, for he had thrown one leg over his knee, care-
lessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by an air of
ease. But all the same the knowledge was in me, the
awakened resonance of which I spoke just now. I said
wondering, rather irrationally —

" 'And so de Barral had a wife and child ! That girl's
his daughter. And how . . .'

"Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as
though it were something not easy to believe, that his
wife and himself had tried to befriend the girl in every
way — indeed they had ! I did not doubt him for a mo
ment, of course, but my wonder at this was more
rational. At that hour of the morning, you mustn't
forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. Fyne's contact
(it was hardly more) with de Barral's wife and child

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 89

during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating days
of that man's fame.

"Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to
me on that subject, gave me the first hint of this initial,
merely out of doors, connection. 'The girl was quite a
child then,' he continued. 'Later on she was removed
out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a governess' — a
very unsatisfactory person,' he explained. His wife
had then — h'm — met him ; and on her marriage she lost
sight of the child completely. But after the birth of
Polly (Polly was the third Fyne girl) she did not get on
very well, and went to Brighton for some months to re-
cover her strength — and there, one day in the street, the
child (she wore her hair down her back still) recognized
her outside a shop and rushed, actually rushed, into
Mrs. Fyne's arms. Rather touching this. And so,
disregarding the cold impertinence of that . . .
h'm . . . governess, his wife naturally responded.

"He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the
observation that it must have been before the crash.

"Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his
bass tone —

"'Just before,' and indulged himself with a weighty
period of solemn silence.

"De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to
Brighton for week-ends regularly, then. Must have
been conscious already of the approaching disaster.
Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his ac-
quaintance, and this suited the views of the governess
person, very jealous of any outside influence. But in
any case it would not have been an easy matter.
Extraordinary, stiff -backed, thin figure all in black, the
observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with the
girl; apparently shy, but— and here Fyne came very
near showing something like insight— probably nursing

90 CHANCE

under a diffident manner a considerable amount of
secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral's
fate long before the catastrophe. Most unfortunate
guidance. Very unsatisfactory surroundings. The girl
was known in the streets, was stared at in public places
as if she had been a sort of princess, but she was kept,
with a very ominous consistency, from making any
acquaintances — though of course there were many
people no doubt who would have been more than
willing to — h'm — make themselves agreeable to Miss de
Barral. But this did not enter into the plans of the
governess, an intriguing person hatching a most sinister
plot under her air of distant, fashionable exclusiveness.
Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror
as he revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's
more than suspicions, at the time, of that Mrs., Mrs.
What's-her-name's perfidious conduct. She actually
seemed to have — Mrs. Fyne asserted — formed a plot
already to marry eventually her charge to an impecu-
nious relation of her own — a young man with furtive
eyes and something impudent in his manner, whom that
woman called her nephew, and whom she was always
having down to stay with her.

" 'And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all' —
Fyne emitted with a convulsive effort this, the most
awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne used to impart
to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-
ends gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in
their good-natured concern for the unlucky child of the
man busied in stirring casually so many millions, spent
the moments of their weekly reunion in wondering earn-
estly what could be done to defeat the most wicked of con-
spiracies, trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in
such extraordinary circumstances. I could see them,
simple and scrupulous, worrying honestly about that

THEIFT— AND THE CHILD 91

unprotected big girl while looking at their own little girls
playing on the seashore. Fyne assured me that his wife's
rest was disturbed by the great problem of interference.
"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep
game,' I said, wondering to myself where her acuteness
had gone to now, to let her be taken unawares by a
game so much simpler and played to the end under her
very nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly
rest was disturbed by the dread of the fate preparing for
de Barral's unprotected child, she was not engaged in
writing a compendious and ruthless handbook on the
theory and practice of life, for the use of women with a
grievance. She could as yet, before the task of evolving
the philosophy of rebellious action had affected her
intuitive sharpness, perceive things which were, I sus-
pect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to believe
that the woman whom chance had put in command of
Flora de Barral's destiny took no very subtle pains to
conceal her game. She was conscious of being a com-
plete master of the situation, having once for all
established her ascendancy over de Barral. She had
taken all her measures against outside observation of her
conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought
what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes
must have been to her. How exasperated she must
have been by that couple falling into Brighton as com-
pletely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue — if not so
prompt. How she must have hated them!

"But I conclude she would have carried out whatever
plan she might have formed. I can imagine de Barral
accustomed for years to defer to her wishes and, either
through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of his
unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social
pale, knowing no one but some card-playing cronies;
I can picture him to myself terrified at the prospect of

92 CHANCE

having the care of a marriageable girl thrust on his
hands, forcing on him a complete change of habits and
the necessity of another kind of existence which he
would not even have known how to begin. It is evident
to me that Mrs. What's-her-name would have had her
atrocious way with very little trouble even if the ex-
cellent Fynes had been able to do something. She
would simply have bullied de Barral in a lofty style.
There's nothing more subservient than an arrogant
man when his arrogance has once been broken in some
particular instance.

"However there was no time and no necessity for any
one to do anything. The situation itself vanished in
the financial crash as a building vanishes in an earth-
quake — here one moment and gone the next with only
an ill omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to say
'in a moment' is an exaggeration perhaps; but that
everything was over in just twenty-four hours is an
exact statement. Fyne was able to tell me all about it;
and the phrase that would depict the nature of the
change best is: an instant and complete destitution. I
don't understand these matters very well, but from
Fyne's narrative it seemed as if the creditors or the
depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold
in the twinkling of an eye of everything de Barral
possessed in the world, down to his watch and chain, the
money in his trousers' pocket, his spare suits of clothes,
and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin
cravat. Everything! I believe he gave up the very
wedding ring of his late wife. The gloomy Priory with
its damp park and a couple of farms had been made over
to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without making a
will) it reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of
course; but it was a mere crumb in a Sahara of starva-
tion, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say that not a

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 99

single soul in the world got the comfort of as much as a
recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less
than crumbs, less than drops, there were to be grabbed,
the lease of the big Brighton house, the furniture there-
in, the carriage and pair, the girl's riding-horse, her
costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar
of her pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the
most noble-looking item in the beggarly assets.

"What however went first of all, or rather vanished,
was nothing in the nature of an asset. It was that
plotting governess with the trick of a 'perfect lady'
manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a re-
morseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort
of unlawful man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in
the way of thoroughness. It's true that you will find
people who'll tell you that this terrific virulence in
breaking through all established things is altogether
the fault of men. Such people will ask you with a
clever air why the servile wars were always the most
fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. And you
may make such answer as you can — even the eminently
feminine one, if you choose, so typical of the women's
literal mind, T don't see what this has to do with it!'
How many arguments have been knocked over (I won't
say knocked down) by these few words! For if we
men try to put the spaciousness of all experiences into
our reasoning and would fain put the Infinite itself into
our love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, 'It isn't
women's doing.' Oh, no. They don't care for these
things. That sort of aspiration is not much in their
way; and it shall be a funny world, the world of their
arranging, where the Irrelevant would fantastically
step in to take the place of the sober humdrum Imagina-
tive. . . ."
. I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow.

94 CHANCE

"Do you really believe what you have said?" I
asked, meaning no offence, because with Marlow one
never could be sure.

"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow
with a malicious smile. "To-day I have been simply
trying to be spacious and I perceive I've managed to
hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to
women. When you sit alone and silent you are de-
fending in your mind the poor women from attacks
which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what
can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness
I will point out again that an Irrelevant world would
be very amusing, if the women would take care to
make it as charming as they alone can, by preserv-
ing for us certain well-known, well-established, I'll
almost say hackneyed, illusions, without which the
average male creature cannot get on. And that
condition is very important. For there is nothing
more provoking than the Irrelevant when it has ceased
to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of
the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making
some brusque, unguarded movement and accidentally
putting its elbow through the fine tissue of the world of
which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For
nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine
tissue which has been damaged. The women them-
selves would be the first to become disgusted with their
own creation.

"There was something of women's highly practical
sanity and also of their irrelevancy in the conduct of
Miss de Barral's amazing governess. It appeared from
Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble
of the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived
unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his 'Aunt.' To
all outward appearance everything was going on nor-

THRIFT— AND THE CHILD 95

mally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the
afternoon as he often used to do — a sight which never
failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with indignation. Fyne himself
was down there with his family for a whole week and
was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its
progress and to share in his wife's feelings. There
was not even a groom with them. And Mrs. Fyne'9
distress was so strong at this glimpse of the unlucky girl,
all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that
Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn't
their plain duty to interfere at all risks — simply by
writing a letter to de Barral. He said to his wife with a
solemnity I can easily imagine, 'You ought to under-
take that task, my dear. You have known his wife
after all. That's something at any rate.' On the other
hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some nasty
rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side
gave way to despondency. Success seemed impossible.
Here was a woman for more than five years in charge of
the girl and apparently enjoying the complete confi-
dence of the. father. What, that would be effective,
could one say, without proofs, without . . . This Mr.
de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne pronounced, either a very
stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his child so.
"You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne's
solemn view of our transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natu-
ral capacity for responsibility, it had never occurred
to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty was
to do nothing and dismiss the matter as no concern of
theirs. Which in a strict worldly sense it certainly was
not. But they spent, Fyne told me, a most disturbed
afternoon, considering the ways and means of dealing
with the danger hanging over the head of the girl out
for a ride (and no doubt enjoying herself) with an
abominable scamp.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GOVERNESS

4 "And the best of it was that the danger was all over
already. There was no danger any more. The sup-
posed nephew's appearance had a purpose. He had
come, full, full to trembling — with the bigness of his
news. There must have been rumours already as to
the shaky position of the de Barral's concerns; but
only amongst those in the very inmost know. No
rumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in
the West End — let alone in the guileless marine
suburb of Hove. The Fynes had no suspicion; the
governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusive-
ness the part of mother to the fabulously Wealthy Miss
de Barral, had no suspicion; the masters of music, of
drawing, of dancing to Miss de Barral, had no idea; the
minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the servants
in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the
name of de Barral on their books, were in a state of
absolute serenity. Thus, that fellow, who had un-
expectedly received a most alarming straight tip from
somebody in the City, arrived in Brighton, at about
lunchtime, with something very much in the nature of a
deadly bomb in his possession. But he knew better
than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his
lunch impenetrably sitting opposite Flora de Barral,
and then, on some excuse closeted himself with the
woman whom little Fyne's charity described (with a
slight hesitation of speech however) as his 'Aunt.'

THE GOVERNESS 97

"What they said to each other in private we can im-
agine. She came out of her own sitting-room with red
spots on her cheek-bones, which having provoked a
question from her 'beloved' charge, were accounted
for by a curt 'I have a headache coming on.' But we
may be certain that the talk being over she must have
said to that young blackguard: 'You had better take
her out for a ride as usual.' We have proof positive of
this in Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them mount at
the door and pass under the windows of their sitting-
room, talking together, and the poor girl all smiles;
because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of
Charley. She made no secret of it whatever to Mrs.
Fyne; in fact, she had confided to her, long before, that
she liked him very much: a confidence which had
filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of
powerless anguish which is experienced in certain kinds
of nightmare. For how could she warn the girl? She
did venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr.
Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment.
How was it possible not to like Charley? Afterwards
with naive loyalty she told Mrs. Fyne that, immensely
as she was fond of her, she could not hear a word against
Charley — the wonderful Charley.

"The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly
ride with the jolly Charley (infinitely more jolly than
going out with a stupid old riding-master) very much
indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a
later hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly
dark. On dismounting, helped off by the delightful
Charley, she patted the neck of her horse and went up
the steps. Her last ride. She was then within a few
days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight figure in a riding-
habit, rather shorter than the average height for her
age, in a black bowler hat from under which her fine

98 CHANCE

rippling dark hair cut square at the ends was hanging
well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted
again to take the two horses round to the mews. Mrs,
Fyne remaining at the window saw the house door close
on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride.

"And meantime what had the governess (out of a
nobleman's family) so judiciously selected (a lady, and
connected with well-known county people as she said)
to direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind,
polish the manners, and generally play the perfect
mother to that luckless child — what had she been doing?
Well, having got rid of her charge by the most natural
device possible, which proved her practical sense, she
started packing her belongings, an act which showed
her clear view of the situation. She had worked
methodically, rapidly, and well, emptying the drawers,
clearing the tables in her special apartment, with some-
thing silently passionate in her thoroughness; taking
everything belonging to her and some things of less un-
questionable ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory
and gold paper knife (the house was full of common,
costly objects), some chased silver boxes presented by
de Barral, and other trifles; but the photograph of
Flora de Barral, with the loving inscription, which stood
on her writing-desk, of the most modern and expensive
style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to take. Hav-
ing accidentally, in the course of the operations,
knocked it off on the floor, she let it lie there after a
downward glance. Thus it, or the frame at least,
became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de Barral
bankruptcy.

"At dinner that evening the child found her company
dull and brusque. It was uncommonly slow. She
could get nothing from her governess but monosyllables,
and the jojly Charley actually snubbed the various.

THE GOVERNESS 99

cheery openings of his 'little chum' — as he used to call
her at times — but not at that time. No doubt the
couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all this we
have evidence, and for the fact that Flora being offended
with the delightful nephew of her profoundly respected
governess sulked through the rest of the evening and
was glad to retire early. Mrs., Mrs. — I've really for-
gotten her name — the governess, invited her nephew to
her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk
over some family matters. This was meant for Flora to
hear, and she heard it — without the slightest interest.
In fact there was nothing sufficiently unusual in such an
invitation to arouse in her mind even a passing wonder.
She went bored to bed, and being tired with her long
ride slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't
say of innocence — that word would not render my exact
meaning, because it has a special meaning of its own —
but I will say: of that ignorance, or better still, of that
unconsciousness of the world's ways, the unconscious-
ness of danger, of pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of
falsehood. An unconsciousness which in the case of
other beings like herself is removed by a gradual
process of experience and information, often only partial
at that, with saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling
theories. Her unconsciousness of the evil which lives in
the secret thoughts and therefore in the open acts of
mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets
evil courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into
with profane violence, with desecrating circumstances
like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful impiety.
Yes, that very young girl, almost no more than a child —
this was what was going to happen to her. And if you
ask me how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer
you: Why, by chance! By the merest chance, as
things do happen, lucky and unlucky, terrible or tender,

100 CHANCE

important or unimportant; and even things which are
neither, things so completely neutral in character that
you would wonder why they do happen at all if you
didn't know that they, too, carry in their insignificance
the seeds of further incalculable chances.

"Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should
have fallen upon a perfectly harmless, naive, usual, in-
efficient specimen of respectable governess for his
daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who
would have tried, say, to marry him or work some
other sort of common mischief in a small way. Or
again he might have chanced on a model of all the
virtues, or the repository of all knowledge, or anything
equally harmless, conventional, and middle class. All
calculations were in his favour; but, chance being incal-
culable, he fell upon an individuality whom it is much
easier to define by opprobrious names than to classify in
a calm and scientific spirit — but an individuality cer-
tainly, and a temperament as well. Rare? No.
There is a certain amount of what I would politely call
unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of the
excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of
her family, resembled a governess of a conventional
type. Only, her mental excesses were theoretical,
hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional
reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere
libertinage of thought; whereas the other woman, the
governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you may have
noticed, severely practical — terribly practical. No!
Hers was not a rare temperament, except in its fierce
resentment of repression; a feeling which like genius or
lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden irrelevancy.
Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male
ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved
exactly as she did behave. There is a softness in

THE GOVERNESS 101

masculine nature, even the most brutal, which acts as a
check.

"While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an
age in itself terrible, and that hopeless young 'wrong
'un' of twenty-three (also well connected I believe),
had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms:
wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty,
trunks locked and strapped, furniture in idle disarray,
and not so much as a single scrap of paper left behind on
the tables. The maid, whom the governess and the
pupil shared between tbem, after finishing with Flora,
came to the door as usual, bu* was not admitted. She
heard the two voices in dispute before she knocked, and
then being sent away retreated at once — the only
person in the house convinced at that time that there
was 'something up.'

"Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met
with in life, there must be such places in any statement
dealing with life. In what I am telling you of now — an
episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green
country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by
our meeting a man who has been a blue-water sailor —
this evening confabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot.
And we may conjecture what we like. I have no dif-
ficulty in imagining that the woman — of forty, and the
chief of the enterprise — must have raged at large. And
perhaps the other did not rage enough. Youth feels
deeply it is true, but it has not the same vivid sense of
lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute reality of
time. And then, in that abominable scamp no very
genuine feeling about anything could exist — not even
about the hazards of his own unclean existence. A
sneering half -laugh with some such remark as: 'We are
properly sold and no mistake ' would have been enough
to make trouble in that way. And then another sneer,

102 CHANCE

'Waste time enough over it too,' followed perhaps by
the bitter retort from the other party, 'You seemed to
like it well enough though, playing the fool with that
chit of a girl.' Something of that sort. Don't you
see it — eh? . . ."

Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating
glance. I was struck by the absolute verisimilitude of
this suggestion. But we were always tilting at each
other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid
thrust.

"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a
cheerfully sceptical smile.

" Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. " But
let me remind you that this situation came to me un-
asked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief-mate we had
once in the dear old Samarcand when I was a youngster.
The fellow went gravely about trying to "account to
himself — his favourite expression — for a lot of things
no one would care to bother one's head about. He was
an old idiot, but he was also an accomplished practical
seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I
must have caught the disposition from him."

"Well — go on with your accounting then," I said,
assuming an air of resignation.

"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at
once. "That's just it. Mere disappointed cupidity
cannot account for the proceedings of the next morning;
proceedings which I shall not describe to you — but
which I shall tell you of presently, not as a matter of
conjecture but of actual fact. Meantime returning to
that evening altercation in deadened tones within the
private apartment of Miss de Barral's governess, what
if I were to tell you that disappointment had most likely
made them touchy with each other, but that perhaps
the secret of his careless, railing behaviour, was in the

THE GOVERNESS 103

thought, springing up within him with an emphatic
oath of relief, 'Now there's nothing to prevent me
from breaking away from that old woman.' And that
the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this
miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate,
accident and the whole course of human life, concentrat-
ing its venom on de Barral and including the innocent
girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying with-
in her, 'Now I have nothing to hold him with. . . ."'

T couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged
whistle. "Phew! So you suppose that . . ."

He waved his hand impatiently.

"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why
shouldn't you accept the supposition. Do you look
upon governesses as creatures above suspicion or
necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their
hearts would not stand looking into much better than
other people's. Why shouldn't a governess have pas-
sions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, and even
ungovernable passions;- yet suppressed by the very
same means which keep the rest of us in order: early
training — necessity — circumstances — fear of conse-
quences; till there comes an age, a time when the
restraint of years becomes intolerable — and infatuation
irresistible? . . ."

"But if infatuation — quite possible I admit," I
argued, "how do you account for the nature of the con-
spiracy?"

"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in
women," said Marlow. "The subterfuges of a men-
aced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is
going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its
own ends, of walking backwards into a precipice.

"When one once acknowledges that she was not a
common woman, then all this is, easily understood.

104 CHANCE

She was abominable, but she was not common. She
had suffered in her life not from its constant inferiority
but from constant self-repression. A common woman
finding herself placed in a commanding position might
have formed the design to become the second Mrs. de
Barral. Which would have been impracticable. De
Barral would not have known what to do with a wife.
But even if by some impossible chance he had made
advances, this governess would have repulsed him with
scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior being
with an assured, distant politeness. In her composed,
schooled manner she despised and disliked both father
and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that she
had always disliked intensely all her charges including
the two ducal (if they were ducal) little girls with whom
she had dazzled de Barral. What an odious, ungratified
existence it must have been for a woman as avid of all
the sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her
betters !

"She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness dis-
appear, her hopes die, and now she felt her flaming
middle-age slipping away from her. No wonder that
with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly
sprinkled with white threads and adding to her elegant
aspect the piquant distinction of a powdered coiffure —
no wonder, I say, that she clung desperately to her last
infatuation for that graceless young scamp, even to the
extent of hatching for him that amazing plot. He was
not so far gone in degradation as to make him utterly
impossible for such an attempt. She hoped to keep
him straight with that enormous bribe. She was
clearly a woman uncommon enough to live without
illusions — which, of course, does not mean that she was
reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with a
fury of self -contempt, 'In a few years I shall be too old

THE GOVERNESS 105

for anybody. Meantime I shall have him — and I shall
hold him by throwing to him the money of that or-
dinary, silly little girl of no account.' "Well, it was a
desperate expedient — but she thought it worth while.
And besides there is hardly a woman in the world, no
matter how hard, depraved or frantic, in whom some-
thing of the maternal instinct does not survive, un-
consumed like a salamander, in the fires of the most
abandoned passion. Yes, there might have been that
sentiment for him too. There was no doubt. So I say
again: No wonder! No wonder that she raged at
everything — and perhaps even at him, with contradic-
tory reproaches: for regretting the girl, a little fool
who would never in her life be worth anybody's
attention, and for taking the disaster itself with
a cynical levity in which she perceived a flavour of
revolt.

"And so the altercation in the night went on, over the
irremediable. He arguing, 'What's the hurry? Why
clear out like this?' perhaps a little sorry for the girl
and as usual without a penny in his pocket, appreciating
the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long
as possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already
doomed luxury. There was really no hurry for a few
days. Always time enough to vanish. And, with
that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for
appearances surviving his degradation: 'You might
behave decently at the last, Eliza.' But there was no
softness in the sallow face under the gala effect of
powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-
ringed eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. 'No!
No ! If it is as you say, then not a day, not an hour, not
a moment.' She stuck to it, very determined that
there should be no more of that boy and girl philander-
ing since the object of it was gone; angry with herself

106 CHANCE

for having suffered from it so much in the past, furious
at its having been all in vain.

"But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with
him finally. What was the good? She found means to
placate him. The only means. As long as there was
some money to be got she had hold of him. 'Now go
away. We shall do no good by any more of this sort of
talk. I want to be alone for a bit.' He went away,
sulkily acquiescent. There was a room always kept
ready for him on the same floor, at the farther end of a
short thickly carpeted passage.

"How she passed the night, this woman, with no il-
lusions to help her through the hours which must have
been sleepless, I shouldn't like to say. It ended at
last; and this strange victim of the de Barral failure,
whose name would never be known to the Official
Receiver, came down to breakfast, impenetrable in her
everyday perfection. From the very first, somehow,
she had accepted the fatal news for true. All her life
she had never believed in her luck, with that pessimism
of the passionate who at bottom feel themselves to be the
outcasts of a morally restrained universe. But this did
not make it any easier, on opening the morning paper
feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh, yes! It was
there. The Orb had suspended payment — the first
growl of the storm faint as yet, but to the initiated the
forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was not
indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a
sense. The serious paper, the only one of the great
dailies which had always maintained an attitude of re-
serve towards the de Barral group of banks, had its
'manner.' Yes! a modest item of news! But there
was also, on another page, a special financial article in a
hostile tone beginning with the words, 'We have al-
ways feared,' and a guarded, half-column leader, open-

THE GOVERNESS 107

ing with the phrase: 'It is a deplorable sign of the
times,' what was, in effect, an austere, general rebuke
to the absurd infatuations of the investing public. She
glanced through these articles, a line here and a line
there — no more was necessary to catch beyond doubt
the murmur of the oncoming flood. Several slighting
references by name to de Barral revived her animosity
against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of unfore-
seen moral support. The miserable wretch ! . . .'

" — You understand," Marlow interrupted the cur-
rent of his narrative, "that in order to be consecutive in
my relation of this affair I am telling you at once the
details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the day,
as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his
usual solemnity during that morning call. As you may
easily guess, the Fynes, in their apartments, had read
the news at the same time, and, as a matter of fact, in
the same august and highly moral newspaper, as the
governess in the luxurious mansion a few doors down
on the opposite side of the street. But they read them
with different feelings. They were thunderstruck.
Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence
to Mrs. Fyne whose first cry was that of relief. Then
that poor child would be safe from these designing,
horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it might
mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute
penury. Fyne with his masculine imagination was less
inclined to rejoice extravagantly at the girl's escape
from the moral dangers which had been menacing
her defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big
price to pay. What an unfortunate little thing she
was! 'We might be able to do something to comfort
that poor child, at any rate for the time she is here,'
said Mrs. Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obliga-

108 CHANCE

tion not to be indifferent. But no comfort for any one
could be got by rushing out into the street at this early
hour; and so, following the advice of Fyne not to act
hastily, they both sat down at the window and stared
feelingly at the great house, awful to their eyes in its
stolid, prosperous, expensive respectability, with ruiD
absolutely standing at the door.

By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the
information and formed a more or less just appreciation
of its gravity. The butler in Miss de Barral's big
house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than anybody
within a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning
duties, of which one was to dry the freshly delivered
paper before the fire — an occasion to glance at it which
no intelligent man could have neglected. He com-
municated to the rest of the household his vaguely
forcible impression that something had gone d — • — bly
wrong with the affairs of 'her father in London.'

"This brought an atmosphere of constraint through
the house, which Flora de Barral coming down some-
what later than usual could not help noticing in her own
way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly some-
how; she feared a dull day.

"In the dining-room the governess in her place, a news-
paper half-concealed under the cloth on her lap, after a
few words exchanged with lips that seemed hardly to
move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in
an enduring silence; and presently Charley coming in to
whom she did not even give a glance. He hardly said
good morning, though he had a half-hearted try to
smile at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes
on his plate and slight quivers passing along the line of
his clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to say. It
was dull, horribly dull to begin one's day like this; but
she knew what it was, These never-ending family

THE GOVERNESS 109

affairs! It was not for the first time that she had
suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two.
It was a shame that the delightful Charley should be
made dull by these stupid talks, and it was perfectly
stupid of him to let himself be upset like this by his aunt.

"When after a period of still, as if calculating, im-
mobility, her governess got up abruptly and went out
with the paper in her hand, almost immediately after-
wards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half
eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would
have it out that morning whatever it was, and be
themselves again in the afternoon. At least Charley
would be. To the moods of her governess she did not
attach" so much importance.

"For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the
front door of the awful house open and the objection-
able young man issue forth, his rascality visible to their
prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart
cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away
rapidly like a man hurrying to catch a train, glancing
from side to side as though he were carrying something
off. Could he be departing for good? Undoubtedly,
undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne's fervent 'thank good-
ness' turned out to be a bit, as the Americans — some
Americans — say 'previous.' In a very short time the
odious fellow appeared again, strolling, absolutely
strolling back, his hat now tilted a little on one side,
with an air of leisure and satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne
groaned not only in the spirit, at this sight, but in the
flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might
mean. Fyne naturally couldn't say. Mrs. Fyne
believed that there was something horrid in progress
and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up
the steps and had knocked at the door which at once
opened to admit him.

110 CHANCE

"He had been only as far as the bank.

"His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run
after Miss de Barral's governess, was to speak to her in
reference to that very errand possessing the utmost
possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his
shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hand, at
the half -strangled whisper, 'I had to go out. I could
hardly contain myself.' That was her affair. He was,
with a young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her
ferocity. He did not understand it. Men do not
accumulate hate against each other in tiny amounts,
treasuring every pinch carefully till it grows at last into
a monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out
after her to remind her of the balance at the bank.
What about lifting that money without wasting any
more time? She had promised him to leave nothing
behind.

"An account opened in her name for the expenses of
the establishment in Brighton had been fed by de Barral
with deferential lavishness. The governess crossed the
wide hall into a little room at the side where she sat
down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go
and cash as if it were stolen or a forgery. As observed
by the Fynes, his uneasy appearance on leaving the
house arose from the fact that his first trouble having
been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the
possession of a document of the sort made him unreas-
onably uncomfortable till it was safely cashed. And
after all you know it was stealing of an indirect sort;
for the money was de Barral's money if the account
was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate
the cheque was cashed. On getting hold of the notes
and gold he recovered his jaunty bearing, it being well
known that with certain natures the presence of money
(even stolen) in the pocket acts as a tonic, or at least as

THE GOVERNESS 111

a stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as
though he had had a drink or two — which indeed he
might have had in reality, to celebrate the occasion.

"The governess had been waiting for his return in the
hall, disregarding the side-glances of the butler as he
went in and out of the dining-room clearing away the
breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened
the door so promptly. 'It's all right,' he said touching
his breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable
wretch without illusions, she did not dare ask him to
hand it over. They looked at each other in silence.
He nodded significantly: 'Where is she now?' and she
whispered, ' Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see
her again?' with an archly black look which he ac-
knowledged by a muttered, surly: T am damned if I
do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we
go now? '

"She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her
head. She had her idea, her completed plan. At that
moment the Fynes, still at the window and watching
like a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long
grey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping
himself with a thick stick, and knock at the door. Who
could he be?

"He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had
lately taken up painting in water-colours, having read
in a high-class woman's weekly paper that a great many
princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating
that art. This was the water-colour morning; and the
teacher, a veteran of many exhibitions, of a venerable
and jovial aspect, had turned up with his usual punc-
tuality. He was no great reader of morning papers,
and even had he seen the news it is very likely he
would not have understood its real purport. At any
rate he turned up, as the governess expected him to

112 CHANCE

do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the fateful
door.

"He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de
Barral's education, whom he saw in the hall engaged in
conversation with a very good-looking but somewhat
raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously :
'Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room.'

"The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by
princesses was pursued in the drawing-room from con-
siderations of the right kind of light. The governess
preceded the master up the stairs and into the room
where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland
pinafore (also of the right kind for the pursuit of the
art) and smilingly expectant. The water-colour lesson
enlivened by the jocular conversation of the kindly,
humorous old man was always great fun; and she felt
she would be compensated for the tiresome beginning of
the day.

"Her governess generally was present at the lesson;
but on this occasion she only sat down till the master
and pupil had gone to work in earnest, and then as
though she had suddenly remembered some order to
give, rose quietly and went out of the room.

"Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing
maid without a bell being rung, and quick, quick, let all
this luggage be taken down into the hall, and let one of
you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room
door on the landing, looking at each piece, trunk,
leather cases, portmanteaux, being carried past her, her
brows knitted and her aspect so sombre and absorbed
that it took some little time for the butler to muster
courage enough to speak to her. But he reflected that
he was a free-born Briton and had his rights. He
spoke straight to the point, but in the usual respectful
manner.

THE GOVERNESS US

"'Beg your pardon, ma'am — but are you going away
for good?'

"He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, un-
ladylike harshness fell on his trained ear with the diS'
agreeable effect of a false note. 'Yes. I am going
away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away
too, as soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this
moment. You had your wages paid you only last
week. The longer you stay the greater your loss. But
I have nothing to do with it now. You are the servants
of Mr. de Barral — you know.'

"The butler was astounded by the manner of this
advice, and as his eyes wandered to the drawing-room
door the governess extended her arm as if to bar the
way. 'Nobody goes in there.' And that was said
still in another tone, such a tone that all trace of the
trained respectfulness vanished from the butler's bear-
ing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze.
'Not till I am gone,' she added, and there was such an
expression on her face that the man was daunted by the
mystery of it. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and
without another word went down the stairs on his way
to the basement, brushing in the hall past Mr. Charles,
who hat on head and both hands rammed deep into his
overcoat pockets paced up and down as though on
sentry duty there.

"The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs,
hovering in the passage on the first floor, curious and as
if fascinated by the woman who stood there guarding the
door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by
the governess to bring out of the now empty rooms the
hat and veil, the only objects besides the furniture still
to be found there, she did so in silence but inwardly
fluttered. And while waiting uneasily with the veil,
before that woman who, without moving a step away

114 CHANCE

from the drawing-room door was pinning with careless
haste her hat on her head, she heard within a sudden
burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoying the fun
of the water-colour lesson given her for the last time by
the cheery old man.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window —
a most incredible occupation for people of their kind —
saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the door and
watched some luggage being carried out and put on its
roof. The butler appeared for a moment, then went
in again. What did it mean? Was Flora going to be
taken to her father; or were these people, that woman
and her horrible nephew, about to carry her off some-
where? Fyne couldn't tell. He doubted the last,
Flora having now, he judged, no value, either positive
or speculative. Though no great reader of character,
he did not credit the governess with humane intentions.
He confessed to me naively that he was excited as if
watching some action on the stage. Then the thought
struck him that the girl might have had some money
settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some
little fortune of her own and therefore

"He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully
his consternation. 'I can't believe the child will go
away without running in to say good-bye to us,' she
murmured. 'We must find out! I shall ask her.'
But at that very moment the cab rolled away, empty
inside, and the door of the house which had been stand-
ing slightly ajar till then was pushed to.

"They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne
whispered doubtfully, 'I really think I must go over.'
Fyne didn't answer for a while (his is a reflective mind,
you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne's whispers had an
occult power over that door it opened wide again and
the white-bearded man issued, astonishingly active in

THE GOVERNESS 115

his movements, using his stick almost like a leaping-
pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly
along the pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too
far off to make out the expression of his face. But it
would not have helped them very much to a guess at the
conditions inside the house. The expression was
humorously puzzled — nothing more.

"For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick
and coming out with his habitual vivacity, he very
nearly cannoned just outside the drawing-room door
into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. He
stopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly.
It was embarrassing; he apologized; but her face was
not startled; it was not aware of him; it wore a singular
expression of resolution. A very singular expression
which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In
order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane
remark on the weather, upon which, instead of return-
ing another inane remark according to the tacit rules
of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable
meaning. Nothing could have been more singular.
The good-looking young gentleman of questionable
appearance took not the slightest notice of him in the
hall. No servant was to be seen. He let himself out,
pulling the door to behind him with a crash as, in a man-
ner, he was forced to do to get it shut at all.

"When the echo of it had died away the woman on the
landing leaned over the banister and called out bitterly
to the man below, 'Don't you want to come up and say
good-bye?' He had an impatient movement of the
shoulders and went on pacing to and fro as though he
had not heard. But suddenly he checked himself,
stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and
without taking his hands out of his pockets ran smartly
up the stairs. Already facing the door, she turned her

116 CHANCE

head for a whispered taunt: 'Come! Confess you
were dying to see her stupid little face once more' —
to which he disdained to answer.

"Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which
she had been working on her sketch, raised her head at
the noise of the opening door. The invading manner
of their entrance gave her the sense of something she
had never seen before. She knew them well. She
knew the woman better than she knew her father.
There had been between them an intimacy of relation
as great as it can possibly be without the final closeness
of affection. The delightful Charley walked in, with
his eyes fixed on the back of her governess, whose raised
veil hid her forehead like a brown band above the black
line of the eyebrows. The girl was astounded and
alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the
woman's face. The stress of passion often discloses an
aspect of the personality completely ignored till then by
its closest intimates. There was something like an
emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the
other, who, exactly behind her and overtopping her
by half a head, kept his eyelids lowered in a sinister
fashion — which in the poor girl reached, stirred, set
free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying
locked up at the bottom of all human hearts and of the
hearts of animals as well. With suddenly enlarged
pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the
bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped up and found
herself in the middle of the big room, exclaiming at
those amazing and familiar strangers.

'"What do you want?'

"You will note that she cried: What do you want?
Not: What has happened? She told Mrs. Fyne that
she had received suddenly the feeling of being personally
attacked. And that must have been very terrifying.

THE GOVERNESS 117

The woman before her had been the wisdom, the
authority, the protection of life, security embodied and
visible and undisputed.

"You may imagine then the force of the shock in the
intuitive perception not merely of danger, for she did
not know what was alarming her, but in the sense of the
security being gone. And not only security. I don't
know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small
child lives, plays and suffers in terms of its conception of
its own existence. Imagine, if you can, a fact coming
in suddenly with a force capable of shattering that very
conception itself. It was only because of the girl being
still so much of a child that she escaped mental destruc-
tion; that, in other words, she got over it. Could one
conceive of her more mature, while still as ignorant as
she was, one mnst conclude that she would have become
an idiot on the spot — long before the end of that ex-
perience. Luckily, people, whether mature or not
mature (and who really is ever mature?), are for the
most part quite incapable of understanding what is
happening to them: a merciful provision of nature to
preserve an average amount of sanity for working pur-
poses in this world. . . ."

"But we, my dear Mario w, have the inestimable
advantage of understanding what is happening to
others," I struck in. "Or at least some of us seem to.
Is that too a provision of nature? And what is it for?
Is it that we may amuse ourselves gossiping about each
other's affairs? You, for instance, seem — — "

"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me,
" and surely life must be amused somehow. It would be
still a very respectable provision if it were only for that
end. But from that same provision of understanding,
there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the
sense of solidarity; and in minds of any largeness an

118 CHANCE

inclination to that indulgence which is next to affection.
I don't mean to say that I am inclined to an indulgent
view of the precious couple which broke upon an un-
suspecting girl. They came marching in (it's the very
expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne), but at her
cry they stopped. It must have been startling enough
to them. It was like having the mask torn off when
you don't expect it. The man stopped for good; he
didn't offer to move a step farther. But, though the
governess had come in there for the very purpose of
taking the mask off for the first time in her life, she
seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh
provocation. 'What are you screaming for, you
little fool?' she said advancing alone close to the girl
who was affected exactly as if she had seen Medusa's
head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the
shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress,
under that hat she knew so well. It made her lose all
her hold on reality. She told Mrs. Fyne: 'I didn't
know where I was. I didn't even know that I was
frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would
have laughed. If she had told me to put on my hat and
go out with her I would have put on my hat and gone
out with her and never said a single word; I should have
been convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and
I would have worried myself to death rather than
breathe a hint of it to her or any one. But the wretch
put her face close to mine and I could not move.
Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to
the carpet.'

"It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this
to Mrs. Fyne — and to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else
ever heard the story from her lips. But it was never
forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark
on her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated,

THE GOVERNESS 119

to be meditated over. And she said further to Mrs.
Fyne, in the course of many confidences provoked by
that contemplation, that, as long as that woman called
her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a manner
reassuring. Her imagination had, like her body, gone
off in a wild bound to meet the unknown; and then to
hear after all something which more in its tone than in
its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied
the inward flutter of all her being.

'"She called me a little fool more times than I can
remember. I! A fool! Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do
assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of
anything in the world, till then. I just went on living.
And one can't be a fool without one has at least tried
to think. But what had I ever to think about?'

"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had
been a mere life of sensations — the response to which
can neither be foolish nor wise. It can only be tempera-
mental; and I believe that she was of a generally happy
disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when
she was asked violently whether she imagined that there
was anything in her, apart from her money, to induce
any intelligent person to take any sort of interest in her
existence, she only caught her breath in one dry sob and
said nothing, made no other sound, made no movement.
When she was viciously assured that she was in heart,
mind, manner and appearance an utterly common and
insipid creature, she listened without indignation, with-
out anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into
which the other went on pouring all the accumulated
dislike for all her pupils, her scorn of all her employers
(the ducal one included)', the accumulated resentment,
the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of — I
won't say hypocrisy. The practice of hypocrisy is a
relief in itself, a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no

120 CHANCE

doubt, but still a way of getting even with the comrnoa
morality from which some of us appear to suffer so
much. No! I will say the years, the passionate,
bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admirably mannered
restraint at every moment, in a never-failing correctness
of speech, glances, movements, smiles, gestures, estab-
lishing for her a high reputation, an impressive record
of success in her sphere. It had been like living half
strangled for years.

"And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What
looked at last like a possible prize (oh, without illu-
sions ! but still a prize) broken in her hands, fallen in the
dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she revelled
in the miserable revenge — pretty safe too — only re-
gretting the unworthiness of the girlish figure which
stood for so much she had longed to be able to spit
venom at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The presence
of the young man at her back increased both her
satisfaction and her rage. But the very violence of
the attack seemed to defeat its end by rendering the rep-
resentative victim as it were insensible. The cause of
this outrage naturally escaping the girl's imagination,
her attitude was in effect that of dense, hopeless stu-
pidity. And it is a fact that the worst shocks of life are
often received without outcries, without gestures, with-
out a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The
insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly.
This pitiful stolidity was only a fresh provocation.
Yet the poor girl was deadly pale.

"'I was cold,' she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. 'I
had had time to get terrified. She had pushed her face
so near mine and her teeth looked as though she wanted
to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry,
hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too
afraid of her to shudder, too afraid of her to put my

THE GOVERNESS 121

fingers to my ears. I didn't know what I expected her
to call me next, but when she told me I was no better
than a beggar — that there would be no more masters, no
more servants, no more horses for me — I said to myself:
Is that all? I should have laughed if I hadn't been too
afraid of her to make the least little sound.'

"It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the pos-
sible phases of that sort of anguish, beginning with
instinctive panic, through the bewildered stage, the
frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension,
down to the instinctive prudence of extreme terror —
the stillness of the mouse. But when she heard herself
called the child of a cheat and a swindler, the very
monstrous unexpectedness of this caused in her a re-
vulsion towards letting herself go. She screamed
out suddenly, 'You mustn't speak like this of papa!'

"The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where
her little feet seemed dug deep into the thick luxurious
carpet, and she retreated backwards to a distant part of
the room, hearing herself repeat, 'You mustn't, you
mustn't,' as if it were somebody else screaming. She
came to a chair and dropped into it. Thereupon the
somebody else ceased screaming and she lolled, ex-
hausted, sightless, in a silent room, indifferent to every-
thing and without a single thought in her head.

"The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long;
a black abyss of time separating what was past and
gone from the reappearance of the governess and the
reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing
the words through her set teeth : ' You say I mustn't,
I mustn't. All the world will be speaking of him like
this to-morrow. They will say it, and they'll print it.
You shall hear it and you shall read it — and then you
will know whose daughter you are. '

"Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction.

122 CHANCE

'He's nothing but a thief,' she cried, 'this father of.
yours. As to you I have never been deceived in you
for a moment. I have been growing more and more
sick of you for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity,
and you shall go back to where you belong, whatever
low place you have sprung from, and beg your bread —
that is if anybody's charity will have anything to do
with you, which I doubt '

"She would have gone on regardless of the enormous
eyes, of the open mouth of the girl who sat up suddenly
with the wild staring expression of being choked by
invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale.
The effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs.
Fyne told me, that she who as a child had a rather
pretty delicate colouring, showed a white bloodless face
for a couple of years afterwards, and remained always
liable at the slightest emotion to an extraordinary
ghost-like whiteness. The end came in the abomi-
nation of desolation of the poor child's miserable cry
for help: 'Charley! Charley!' coming from her
throat in hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes
had discovered him where he stood motionless and
dumb.

"He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn
brusquely from the pocket of his overcoat, strode up to
the woman, seized her by the arm from behind, saying
in a rough commanding tone: 'Come away, Eliza.'
In an instant the child saw them close together and re-
mote, near the door, gone through the door, which she
neither heard nor saw being opened or shut. But it
was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. Her slow unseeing
glance wandered all over the room. For some time
longer she remained leaning forward, collecting her
strength, doubting if she would be able to stand. She
stood up at last. Everything about her spun round

THE GOVERNESS 123

in an oppressive silence. She remembered perfectly—
as she told Mrs. Fyne — that clinging to the arm of the
chair she called out twice 'Papa! Papa!' At the
thought that he was far away in London everything
about her became quite still. Then, frightened sud-
denly by the solitude of that empty room, she rushed
out of it blindly.

"With that fatal diffidence in well doing inherent in
the present condition of humanity, the Fynes continued
to watch at their window. 'It's always so difficult to
know what to do for the best,' Fyne assured me. It
is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much.
Whereas if you want to do harm to any one you needn't
hesitate. You have only to go on. No one will re-
proach you with your mistakes or call you a confounded,
clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the
closed street door inimical somehow to their benevolent
thoughts, the face of the house cruelly impenetrable.
The unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is
so impressive that Fyne went back into the room for a
moment, picked up the paper again, and' ran his eyes
over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very
bad. He came back to the window and Mrs. Fyne.
Tired out as she was she sat there resolute and ready for
responsibility. But she had no suggestion to offer.
People do fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity
was in her thoughts. She shrank from the incompar-
ably insolent manner of the governess. Fyne stood by
her side, as in those old-fashioned photographs of
married couples where you see a husband with his hand
on the back of his wife's chair. And they were about
as efficient as an old photograph, and as still, till Mrs.
Fyne started slightly. The * street door had swung
open, and, bursting out, appeared the odious young

124 CHANCE

man* his hat (Mrs, Fyne observed) tilted forward over
his eyes. After him the governess slipped through,
turning round at once to shut the door behind her with
care. Meantime the man went down the white steps
and strode along the pavement his hands rammed deep
into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman,
that woman of composed movements, of deliberate
superior manner, took a little run to catch up with him,
and directly she had caught up with him tried to in-
troduce her hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the
brusque half turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an
importunate contact, defeating her attempt rudely.
She did not try again but kept pace with his stride, and
Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking independently, turn
the corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever.
"The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubt-
fully. What do you think of this? Then with common
accord turned their eyes back to the street door, closed,
massive, dark; the great, clear brass knocker shining in
a quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy
shade filling the farther end of the street. Could the
girl be already gone? Sent away to her father? Had
she any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever
came to see her, Mrs. Fyne remembered; and she had
the instantaneous, profound, maternal perception of
the child's loneliness — and a girl too! It was irresist-
ible. And, besides, the departure of the governess was
not without its encouraging influence. 'I am going
over at once to find out,' she declared resolutely but
still staring across the street. Her intention was
arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely glistening
door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning dark-
ness of the hall, out of which literally flew, right out
on the pavement, almost without touching the white
steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore up

THE GOVERNESS 125

to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, dart-
ing past a lamp-post, past the red pillar-box. . . .
'Here,' cried Mrs. Fyne; 'she's coming here! Run
John! Run!'

"Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own
word. Bounded! He assured me with intensified
solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of the short
and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the cir-
cumscribed passages and staircases of a small, private
hotel, would have been worth any amount of money to
a person greedy of memorable impressions. But as I
looked at him, the desire of laughter at my very lips, I
asked myself: how many men could be found ready to
compromise their cherished gravity for the sake of the
unimportant child of a ruined financier with an ugly,
black cloud already wreathing his head? I didn't laugh
at little Fyne. I encouraged him: 'You did! — very
good. . . . Well?'

"His main thought was to save the child from some
unpleasant interference. There was a porter down-
stairs, page boys; some people going away with their
trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at the door,
white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance.

He was in time. He was at the door before she
reached it in her blind course. She did not recognize
him; perhaps she did not see him. He caught her by
the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without try-
ing to check her, simply darted in with her and up the
stairs, causing no end of consternation amongst the
people in his way. They scattered. What might have
been their thoughts at the spectacle of a middle-aged
man abducting headlong into the upper regions of a
respectable hotel a terrified young girl obviously under
age, I don't know. And Fyne (he told me so) did not
care for what people might think, AH he wanted wa$

126 CHANCE

to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time
she ran with him, but at the last flight of stairs he had to
seize and half drag, half carry her to his wife. Mrs.
Fyne waited at the door with her quite unmoved physi-
ognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of respon-
sibility, which already characterized her, long before
she became a ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission
accomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the
sitting-room.

"But before long both Fynes became frightened. After
a period of immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the
girl, who had not said a word, tore herself out from that
slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly be-
tween them, they did not know why, soundless and
ghastly, till she sank exhausted on a couch. Luckily
the children were out with the two nurses. The hotel
housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne to put Flora de Barral
to bed. She was as if gone speechless and insane. She
lay on her back, her face white like a piece of paper, her
dark eyes staring at the ceiling, her awful immobility
broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud chattering
of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds
pulled down, Mrs. Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms
folded, yet inwardly moved by the riddle of that dis-
tress of which she could not guess the word, and saying
to herself: 'That child is too emotional' — much too
emotional to be ever really sound ! ' As if any one not
made of stone could be perfectly sound in this world.
And then how sound? In what sense — to resist what?
Force or corruption? And even in the best armour of
steel there are joints a treacherous stroke can always
find if chance gives the opportunity.

"General considerations never had the power to
trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The girl not being in a state
to be questioned, she waited by the bedside. Fyne had

THE GOVERNESS 127

crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his
anxiety to discover what really had happened. He did
not have to lift the knocker; the door stood open on the
inside gloom of the hall; he walked into it and saw no
one about, the servants having assembled for a fatuous
consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass
voice startled them down there, the butler coming up,
staring and in his shirt sleeves, very suspicious at first,
and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the hus-
band of a lady who had called several times at the
house — Miss de Barral's mother's friend — becoming
humanely concerned and communicative, in a man to
man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's
voice: 'Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to
come back. She told me so herself — he assured Fyne
with a faint shade of contempt creeping into his tone.

"As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had
any idea that she had run out of the house. He dared
say they all would have been willing to do their very
best for her, for the time being; but since she was now
with her mother's friends . . .

"He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very
unexpected. He wanted to know what he had better
do with letters or telegrams which might arrive in the
course of the day.

" 'Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better
bring over to my hotel over there,' said Fyne beginning
to feel extremely worried about the future. The man
said, 'Yes, sir,' adding, 'and if a letter comes
addressed to Mrs. . .'

"Fyne stopped him by a gesture. 'I don't know. . . .
Anything you like.'

'"Very well, sir.'

"The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne,
but remained on the doorstep for a while, looking up

128 CHANCE

I

and down the street in the spirit of independent ex-
pectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs.
Fyne hearing her husband return came out of the room
where the girl was lying in bed. 'No change,' she
whispered; and Fyne could only make a hopeless sign
of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would
end.

"He feared future complications — naturally: a man of
limited means, in a public position, his time not his own.
Yes. He owned to me in the parlour of my farmhouse
that he had been very much concerned then at the
possible consequences. But as he was making this art-
less confession I said to myself that, whatever conse-
quences and complications he might have imagined, the
complication from which he was suffering now could
never, never have presented itself to his mind. Slow
but sure (for I conceive that the Book of Destiny has
been written up from the beginning to the last page)
it had been coming for something like six years — and
now it had come. The complication was there! I
looked at his unshaken solemnity with the amused pity
we give the victim of a funny if somewhat ill-natured
practical joke.

'"Oh hang it,' he exclaimed — in no logical connection
with what he had been relating to me. Nevertheless
the exclamation was intelligible enough.

"However at first there were, he admitted, no un-
toward complications, no embarrassing consequences.
To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to de Barral
no answer was received for more than twenty-four
hours. This certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety.
When the answer arrived late on the evening of next day
it was in the shape of an elderly man. An unexpected
sort of man. Fyne explained to me with precision that
he evidently belonged to what is most respectable in

THE GOVERNESS 129

the lower middle classes. He was calm and slow in his
speech. He was wearing a frock-coat, had grey whis-
kers meeting under his chin, and declared on entering
that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add
that he had not seen his cousin for many years, while he
looked on Fyne (who received him alone) with so much
distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person actually re-
fusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted
tartly that he, for his part, had never seen Mr. de Barral,
in his life, and that, since the visitor did not want to sit
down, he, Fyne, begged him to state his business as
shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then
with a faint superior smile.

"He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him
in a note delivered by a messenger to go to Brighton at
once and take 'his girl' over from a gentleman named
Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family.
And there he was. His business had not allowed him
to come sooner. His business was the manufacture on
a large scale of card-board boxes. He had two grown-up
girls of his own. He had consulted his wife and so that
was all right. The girl would get a welcome in his
home. His home most likely was not what she had
been used to, but, etc., etc.

"All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a
derisive disapproval of everything that was not lower
middle class, a profound respect for money, a mean sort
of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited
satisfaction with his own respectable vulgarity.

"With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of
de Barral was but little less offensive. He looked at
her rather slyly, but her cold, decided demeanour im-
pressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply ap-
palled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly.
Not even when the man remarked with false simplicity

130 CHANCE

that Florrie — her name was Florrie wasn't it? — would
probably miss at first all her grand friends. And when
he was informed that the girl was in bed, not feeling
well at all, he showed an unsympathetic alarm. She
wasn't an invalid, was she? No. What was the
matter with her then?

"An extreme distaste for that respectable member of
society was depicted in Fyne's face even as he was
telling me of him after all these years. He was a speci-
men of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes
have the least experience; and I imagine he jarred on
them painfully. He possessed all the civic virtues in
their very meanest form, and the finishing touch was
given by a low sort of consciousness he manifested of
possessing them. His industry was exemplary. He
wished to catch the earliest possible train next morning.
It seems that for seven and twenty years he had
never missed being seated on his office-stool at the
factory punctually at ten o'clock every day. He
listened to Mrs. Fyne's objections with undisguised
impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up and have her
breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the
breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's polite
stoicism overcame him at last. He had come down at a
very great personal inconvenience, he assured her with
displeasure, but he gave up the early train.

"The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other be-
fore this unforeseen but perfectly authorized guardian,
the same thought springing up in their minds: Poor
girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like
this too! . . . And of course they would be. Poor
girl ! But what could they have done even if they had
been prepared to raise objections? The person in the
frock-coat had the father's note; he had shown it to
Fyne. Just a request to take care of the girl — as her

THE GOVERNESS 131

nearest relative — without any explanation or a single
allusion to the financial catastrophe, its tone strangely-
detached and in its very silence on the point giving
occasion to think that the writer was not uneasy as
to the child's future. Probably it was that very idea
which had set the cousin so readily in motion. Men
had come before out of commercial crashes with estates
in the country and a comfortable income, if not for
themselves then for their wives. And if a wife could be
made comfortable by a little dexterous management
then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility might
have been discussed in the person's household and
judged worth acting upon.

"The man actually hinted broadly that such was his
belief, and in face of Fyne's guarded replies gave him to
understand that he was not the dupe of such reticences.
Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being disap-
pointed because the girl was taken away from them.
They, by a diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor
Flora, had asked the man to dinner. He accepted un-
graciously, remarking that he was not used to late hours.
He had generally a bit of supper about half -past eight or
nine. However . . .

"He gazed contemptuously round the prettily deco-
rated dining-room. He wrinkled his nose in a puzzled
way at the dishes offered to him by the waiter but
refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite
and drinking ('swilling' Fyne called it) gallons of
ginger beer, which was procured for him (in stone
bottles) at his request. The difficulty of keeping up a
conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne her-
self, who had come to the table armed with adamantine
resolution. The only memorable thing he said was
when, in a pause of gorging himself ' with these French
dishes,' he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little

132 CHANCE

tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that
his wife did for a moment think of coming down with
him, but that he was glad she didn't do so. 'She
wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol
about. Not at all happy,' he declared weightily.

"'You must have had a charming evening,' I said to
Fyne, 'if I may judge from the way you have kept the
memory green.'

"'Delightful,' he growled with, positively, a flash of
anger at the recollection, but lapsed back into his
solemnity at once. After we had been silent for a
while I asked whether the man took away the girl next
day.

"Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with
a few clothes the maid had got together and brought
across from the big house. Fyne only saw Flora again
ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in
the Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most
painful ten minutes for the Fynes. The respectable
citizen addressed Miss de Barral as 'Florrie' and 'my
dear,' remarking to her that she was not very big,
'there's not much of you, my dear,' in a familiarly
disparaging tone. Then turning to Mrs. Fyne, and
quite loud, 'She's very white in the face. Why's
that?' To this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had
put the girl's hair up that morning with her own hands.
It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He,
naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving
part. All he could do for Miss de Barral personally
was to go downstairs and put her into the fly himself,
while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been
shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella
and a little black bag, watching this proceeding with
grim amusement, as it seemed. It was difficult to
guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no

THE GOVERNESS 133

longer looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint
'Thank you' from the fly, and he said to her in very
distinct tones and while still holding her hand: 'Pray
don't forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two,
Miss de Barral.' Then Fyne stepped back and the
cousin climbed into the fly muttering quite audibly:
'I don't think you'll be troubled much with her in the
future;' without however looking at Fyne on whom he
did not even bestow a nod. The fly drove away.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE TEA-PARTY

"'Amiable personality,' I observed, seeing Fyne on
the point of falling into a brown study. But I could
not help adding with meaning: 'He hadn't the gift of
prophecy though.'

"Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered 'No, evi-
dently not.' He was gloomy, hesitating. I supposed
that he would not wish to play chess that afternoon.
This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a
day much too fine to be wasted in walking exercise.
And I was disappointed when picking up his cap he
intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the cottage
about four o'clock — as usual.

"'It wouldn't be as usual.' I put a particular stress
on that remark. He admitted, after a short reflection,
that it would not be. No. Not as usual. In fact it
was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She
had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical
sagacity.

"This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never sus-
pected that Mrs. Fyne had taken the trouble to dis-
tinguish in me the signs of sagacity or folly. The few
words we had exchanged last night in the excitement —
or the bother — of, the girl's disappearance, were the
first moderately significant words which had ever
passed between us. I had felt myself always to be in
Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and
nothing else — a convenience — almost an implement.

THE TEA-PARTY 135

"'I am highly flattered,' I said. 'I have always
heard that there are no limits to feminine intuition; and
now I am half inclined to believe it is so. But still I
fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or other-
wise, can be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man's
sagacity is very much like any other man's sagacity.
And with you at hand '

"Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying,
directed straight at me his worried solemn eyes and
struck in: 'Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will
come — won't you?'

"I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex
would make me walk three miles (there and back to
their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes had been
an average sociable couple one knows only because
leisure must be got through somehow, I would have
made short work of that special invitation. But they
were not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be
acknowledged. At the same time I wanted to have my
own way. So I proposed that I should be allowed the
pleasure of offering them a cup of tea at my rooms.

"A short reflective pause — and Fyne accepted eagerly
in his own and his wife's name. A moment after I
heard the click of the gate-latch and then in an ecstasy
of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head
went past my window on the other side of the hedge, its
troubled gaze fixed forward, and the mind inside ob-
viously employed in earnest speculation of an intricate
nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had be-
come more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised
however that it was not of the girl-friend but of his
wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an excellent
husband.

"I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities,
calling in the farmer's wife and reviewing with her the

136 CHANCE

resources of the house and the village. She was a help*
ful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I did not
review. Except in the gross material sense of the after-
noon tea I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne.

"It was impossible for me to make any such prepara-
tions. I could not tell what sort of sustenance she
would look for from my sagacity. And as to taking
stock of the wares of my mind, no one, I imagine, is
anxious to do that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A
vaguely grandiose state of mental self-confidence is
much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly by such a
delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful
woman at my elbow, a dear, flattering, acute, devoted
woman. . . . There are in life moments when one
positively regrets not being married. No! I don't
exaggerate. I have said — moments, not years or even
days. Moments. The farmer's wife obviously could not
be asked to assist. She could not have been expected
to possess the necessary insight, and I doubt whether
she would have known how to be flattering enough.
She was being helpful in her own way, with an extraor-
dinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile off
by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a
piece of eatable cake. The pluck of women! The
optimism of the dear creatures!

"And she managed to find something which looked
eatable. That's all I know as I had no opportunity to
observe the more intimate effects of that comestible. I
myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived
punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She
had no appetite for anything. But she had a thirst —
the sign of deep, of tormenting emotion. Yes, it was
emotion, not the brilliant sunshine — more brilliant than
warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, dis-
tinguished, insular sun, which would not turn a real

THE TEA-PARTY 137

lady scarlet — not on any account. Mrs. Fyne looked
even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a white hat
with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged
hair. The coat was cut something like an army mess-
jacket and the style suited her. I dare say there are
many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking
too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the
sunburnt complexion, down to that something alert in
bearing. But not many would have had that aspect
breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility under
Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late
in life, and of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years
for all her unwrinkled face.

"She looked round the room, told me positively that
I was very comfortable there; to which I assented,
humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good fortune.

"'Why undeserved?' she wanted to know.

'"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any
questions. It might have been an abominable hole,'
I explained to her. 'I always do things like that. I
don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof of saga-
city — is it? Sagacious people, I believe, like to exercise
that faculty. I have heard that they can't even help
showing it in the veriest trifles. It must be very delight-
ful. But I know nothing- of it. I think that I have no
sagacity — no practical sagacity.'

" 'Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest.
I asked after the children whom I had not seen yet since
my return from town. They had been very well. They
were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of
the rude health of their children as if it were a result of
moral excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to
imply some contempt for people whose children were
liable to be unwell at times. One almost felt inclined to
apologize for the inquiry. And this annoyed me; un-

138 CHANCE

reasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior
merit is not a very exceptional weakness. Anxious to
make myself disagreeable by way of retaliation, I ob-
served in accents of interested civility that the dear
girls must have been wondering at the sudden disap-
pearance of their mother's young friend. Had they
been putting any awkward questions about Miss Smith?
Wasn't it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been
introduced to me?

" 'Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper
under her tan, told me that the children had never liked
Flora very much. She hadn't the high spirits which en-
dear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne ex-
plained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the
cottage several times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me
that she often found it very difficult to have her in the
house.

'"But what else could we do?' she exclaimed.

"That little cry of distress, quite genuine in its in-
expressiveness, altered my feeling towards Mrs. Fyne.
It would have been so easy to have done nothing and to
have thought no more about it. My liking for her be-
gan while she was trying to tell me of the night she
spent by the girl's bedside, the night before her depar-
ture with her unprepossessing relative. That Mrs.
Fyne found means to comfort the child I doubt very
much. She had not the genius for the task of undoing
that which the hate of an infuriated woman had planned
so well.

"You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions
are not durable. That's true enough. But here, child
is only a manner of speaking. The girl was within a
few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough
to be matured by the shock. The very effort she had to
make in conveying the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in re-

THE TEA-PARTY 139

r

membering the details, in finding adequate words — or
any words at all — was in itself a terribly enlightening, an
ageing process. She had talked a long time, uninter-
rupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder
and pain, pausing now and then to interject the pitiful
query: 'It was cruel of her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs.
Fyne?'

"For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had
not said anything while he had looked very gloomy and
miserable. He couldn't have taken part against his
aunt — could he? But after all he did, when she called
upon him, take 'that cruel women away.' He had
dragged her out by the arm. She had seen that plainly.
She remembered it. That was it! The woman was
mad. 'Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don't tell me she wasn't mad.
If you had only seen her face . . .'

"But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as
much truth as could be told was due in the way of kind-
ness to the girl, whose fate she feared would be to live
exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged exist-
ences. She explained to her that there were in the
world evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people.
. . . These two persons had been after her father's
money. The best thing she could do was to forget all
about them.

"'After papa's money? I don't understand,' poor
Flora de Barral had murmured, and lay still as if trying
to think it out in the silence and shadows of the room
where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a
long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs.
Fyne whose patient immobility by the bedside of that
brutally murdered childhood did infinite honour to her
humanity. That vigil must have been the more trying
because I could see very well that at no time did she
think the victim particularly charming or sympathetic,

140 CHANCE

It was a manifestation of pure compassion, of com-
passion in itself, so to speak, not many women would
have been capable of displaying with that unflinching
steadiness. The shivering fit over, the girl's next
words in an outburst of sobs were, 'Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I
really such a horrid thing as she has made me out to be? '

"'No, no!' protested Mrs. Fyne. 'It is your former
governess who is horrid and odious. She is a vile
woman. I cannot tell you that she was mad, but I
think she must have been beside herself with rage and
full of evil thoughts. You must try not to think of
these abominations, my dear child.'

" They were not fit for any one to think of much, Mrs.
Fyne commented to me in a curt positive tone. All
that had been very trying. The girl was like a creature
struggling under a net.

"'But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat
and a swindler! Do tell me, Mrs. Fyne, that it isn't
true. It can't be true. How can it be true?'

"She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to
jump out and flee from the sound of the words which
had just passed her own lips. Mrs. Fyne restrained her,
soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on her
pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this
woman had had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken
to heart. The girl, exhausted, cried quietly for a time.
It may be she had noticed something evasive in Mrs.
Fyne's assurances. After a while, without stirring, she
whispered brokenly —

"That awful woman told me that all the world would
call papa these awful names. Is it possible? Is it
possible?'

"Mrs. Fyne kept silent.

""Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne,' the daughter
of de Barral insisted in the same feeble whisper,

THE TEA-PARTY 141

"Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very
trying. Terribly trying. 'Yes, thanks, I will.' She
leaned back in the chair with folded arms while I
poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out
to pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had
become suddenly very indignant at somebody having
the audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. Fyne
stirred her tea for a long time, drank a little, put the cup
down and said with that air of accepting. all the conse-
quences—

"'Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it
would have been kind either. I told her that she must
be prepared for the world passing a very severe judg-
ment on her father . . .'

"Wasn't it admirable?" cried Marlow, interrupting
v his narrative. "Admirable!" And as I looked dubi-
ously at this unexpected enthusiasm he started justify-
ing it after his own manner.

"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It
was perfect. Nothing short of genius could have found
better. And this was nature! As they say of an ar-
tist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion —
judiciousness — something correctly measured. None
of your dishevelled sentiment. And right ! You must
confess that nothing could have been more right. I
had a mind to shout 'Brava! Brava!' but I did not
do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe
the Fyne dog into some sort of self-control. His sharp
comical yapping was unbearable, like stabs through
one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated re-
monstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more
than the deep, patient murmur of the sea abashes a
nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was begin-
ning to* swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I

142 CHANCE

appeared. The dog became at once wildly demonstra-
tive, half strangling himself in his collar, his eyes and
tongue hanging out in the excess of his incomprehensible
affection for me. This was before he caughi sight of
the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs
high up in the air followed, and then, when he got
the cake, he instantly lost his interest in everything
else.

" Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master
as any dog could wish to have, he yet did not approve of
cake being given to dogs. The Fyne dog was sup-
posed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive
biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic bone thrown
in. Fyne looked down gloomily at the appeased ani-
mal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and (you know how
one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded
visually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the
ghostly white face of the girl I saw last accompanied by
that dog — deserted by that dog. I almost heard her
distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears call-
ing to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she
had not the power of evoking sympathy, that personal
gift of direct appeal to the feelings. I said to Fyne,
mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog:

"'Why don't you let him come inside?'
'Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might in-
deed have saved my breath, I knew it was one of the
Fyne's rules of life, part of their solemnity and re-
sponsibility, one of those things that were part of their
unassertive but ever-present superiority, that their
dog must not be allowed in. It was most improper to
intrude the dog into the houses of the people they were
calling on — if it were only a careless bachelor in farm-
house lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It
-i as out of the question. But they would let him bark

THE TEA-PARTY 143

one's sanity away outside one's window. They were
strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative sym-
pathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to
the parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen
along the lane for the next hour or so to disturb the dog's
composure.

"Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table
charged with plates, cups, jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs,
and the general litter of the entertainment turned her
head towards us.

"'You see, Mr. Marlow,' she said in an unexpectedly
confidential tone: 'they are so utterly unsuited for
each other.'

"At the moment I did not know how to apply this
remark. I thought at first of Fyne and the dog. Then
I adjusted it to the matter in hand which was neither
more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It
was something very much like an elopement — with
certain unusual characteristics of its own which made it
in a sense equivocal. With amused wonder I remem-
bered that my sagacity was requisitioned in such a
connection. How unexpected! But we never know
what tests our gifts may be put to. Sagacity dictated
caution first of all. I believe caution to be the first duty
of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing himself to
witness a joust, I thought.

"'Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?' I said sagaciously.
'Of course you are in a position . . .' I was con-
tinuing with caution when she struck out vivaciously
for immediate assent.

"'Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must ad-
mit . . .'

"'But, Mrs. Fyne,' I remonstrated, 'you forget that
I don't know your brother.'

"This argument which was not only sagacious but,

144 CHANCE

true, overwhelmingly true, unanswerably true, seemed
to surprise her.

"I wondered why. I did not know enough of her
brr+her for the remotest guess at what he might be
like. I had never set eyes on the man. I didn't know
him so completely that by contrast I seemed to have
known Miss de Barral — whom I had seen twice (al-
together about sixty minutes) and with whom I had
exchanged about sixty words — from the cradle so to
speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down at Mrs.
Fyne (I had remained standing) perhaps she thinks
that this.ought to be enough for a sagacious assent.

"She kept silent; and I, looking at her with polite ex-
pectation, went on addressing her mentally in a mood of
familiar approval which would have astonished her had
it been audible : 'You, my dear, at any rate are a sin-
cere woman . . .'

"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after
giving me a cigar and lighting one himself, "I call a
woman sincere when she volunteers a statement re-
sembling remotely in form what she really would like to
say, what she really thinks ought to be said if it were not
for the necessity to spare the stupid sensitiveness of
men. The women's rougher, simpler, more upright
judgment, embraces the whole truth, which their tact,
their mistrust of masculine idealism, ever prevents
them from speaking in its entirety. And their tact is
unerring. We could not stand women speaking the
truth. We could not bear it. It would cause infinite
misery and bring about most awful disturbances in this
rather mediocre, but still idealistic fool's paradise in
which each of us lives his own little life — the unit in the
great sum of existence. And they know it. They are
merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to
Mrs. Jyne's outburst of sincerity in a matter in which

THE TEA-PARTY 145

neither my affections nor my vanity was engaged.
That's why, may be, she ventured so far. For a
woman she chose to be as open as the day with me.
There was not only the form but almost the whole
substance of her thought in what she said. She believed
she could risk it. She had reasoned somewhat in this
way; there's a man, possessing a certain amount of
sagacity . . ."

Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The
last few words he had spoken with the cigar in his teeth.
He took it out now by an ample movement of his arm
and blew a thin cloud.

"You smile? It would have been more kind to spare
my blushes. But as a matter of fact I need not blush.
This is not vanity; it is analysis. We'll let sagacity
stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this
connection stands for. When you see this you shall see
also that there was nothing in it to alarm my modesty.
I don't think Mrs. Fyne credited me with the possession
of wisdom tempered by common sense. And had I had
the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would
not have been moved to confidence or admiration. The
secret scorn of women for the capacity to consider
judiciously and to express profoundly a meditated con-
clusion is unbounded. They have no use for these
lofty exercises which they look upon as a sort of purely
masculine game — game meaning a respectable occupa-
tion devised to kill time in this man-arranged life which
must be got through somehow. What women's acute-
ness really respects are the inept 'ideas' and the sheep-
like impulses by which our actions and opinions are
determined in matters of real importance. For if
women are not rational they are indeed acute. Even
Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good woman was making
up to her husband's chess-player simply because she

146 CHANCE

had scented in him that small portion of 'femininity,'
that drop of superior essence of which I am myself
aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has saved me
from one or two misadventures in my life either ridicu-
lous or lamentable, I am not very certain which. It
matters very little. Anyhow misadventures. Observe
that I say 'femininity,' a privilege — not 'feminism,' an
attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who on
certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental
attitude; but it was enough to glance at him sitting on
one side, to see that he was purely masculine to his
finger tips, masculine solidly, densely, amusingly, —
hopelessly.

" I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity
recognized by a man's wife without feeling the propriety
and even the need to glance at the man now and again.
So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so
that 'hopelessly' was not the last word of it. He was
helpless. He was bound and delivered by it. And if
by the obscure promptings of my composite tempera"
ment I beheld him with malicious amusement, yet being
in fact, by definition and especially from profound con-
viction, a man, I could not help sympathizing with him
largely. Seeing him thus disarmed, so completely
captive by the very nature of things, I was moved to
speak to him kindly.

"'Well. And what do you think of it?'

"'I don't know. How's one to tell? But I say that
the thing is done now and there's an end of it,' said the
masculine creature as bluntly as his innate solemnity
permitted.

"Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to
her and remarked gently that this was a charge, a
criticism, which was often made. Some people always
ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what

THE TEA-PARTY 147

she could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitabil-
ity.

" She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded
arms:

'"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my
brother.'

" I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point.

'"And then the marriage in most cases turns out no
worse than the average, to say the least of it.'

"Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn
of my sagacity. She rested her eyes on my face as
though in doubt whether I had enough femininity in my
composition to understand the case.

" I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking
herself: Is it, after all, worth while to talk to that man?
You understand how provoking this was. I looked in
my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with
the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is
humiliating to confess a failure. One would think that
a man of average intelligence could command stupidity
at will. But it isn't so. I suppose it's a special gift or
else the difficulty consists in being relevant. Discover-
ing that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned
to the next best thing: a platitude. I advanced, in a
common-sense tone, that, surely, in the matter of mar-
riage a man had only himself to please.

"Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an
eyelid. Fyne's masculine breast, as might have been
expected, was pierced by that old, regulation shaft.
He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false
simplicity. 'Don't you agree with me?'

"'The very thing I've been telling my wife,' he ex-
claimed in his extra-manly bass. 'We have been dis-
cussing — — '

"A discussion in the Fyne menage ! How portentous !

148 CHANCE

Perhaps the very first difference they had ever had:
Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any responsibility,
Fyne solemn and shrinking — the children in bed up-
stairs; and outside the dark fields, the shadowy con-
tours of the land on the starry background of the uni-
verse, with the crude light of the open window like a
beacon for the truant who would never come back now;
a truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a
fugitive carrying off spoils. It was the flight of a
raider — or a traitor? This affair of the purloined
brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling
physiognomy. The girl must have bee*h desperate, I
thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne well enough
but catching the sense of his words not at all, except the
very last words which were:

'"Of course, it's extremely distressing.'
"I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing
him? The purloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by
the daugher of the financier-convict? Or only, if I
may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the
solemn placidity of the Fyne's domestic atmosphere?
My incertitude did not last long, for he added :
"'Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once.'
" One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste
for the journey, his distress at a difference of feeling with
his wife. With his' serious view of the sublunary comedy
Fyne suffered from not being able to agree solemnly
with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in
recognition of having had his way in one supreme in-
stance: when he made her elope with him — the most
momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. He
had been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the
Tightness of her feeling for granted on every other oc-
casion. It had become a sort of habit at last. And it
is never pleasant to break a habit. The man waa

THE TEA-PARTY 149

deeply troubled. I said: 'Really! To go to Lon-
don!'

"He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic
and funny. 'And you of course feel it would be use-
less,' I pursued.

"He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He
only went on blinking at me with a solemn and comical
slowness. 'Unless it be to carry there the family's
blessing,' I went on, indulging my chaffing humour
steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not
look at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or move-
ment came from that direction. 'You think very
naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons,
against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of
intellect bordering on the absurd.'

"He looked surprised as if I had discovered something
very clever. He, dear man, had thought of nothing at
all. He simply knew that he did not want to go to
London on that mission. Mere masculine delicacy. In
a moment he became enthusiastic.

"'Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . .
You hear, my dear? Here you have an independent
opinion '

"'Can anything be more hopeless,' I insisted to the
fascinated little Fyne, 'than to pit reason against
love? I must confess however that in this case when I
think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if . . .'

"My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still lean-
ing back in her chair she exclaimed:

'"Mr. Marlow!'

"As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the
absurd Fyne dog began to bark in the porch. It might
have been at a trespassing bumble-bee however. That
animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up.

150 CHANCE

quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to
leave us alone to discuss that matter of his journey to
London. A sort of anti-sentimental journey. He, too,
apparently, had confidence in my sagacity. It was
touching, this confidence. It was at any rate more
genuine than the confidence his wife pretended to have
in her husband's chess-player, of three successive holi-
days. Confidence be hanged ! Sagacity — indeed ! She
had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving
to make me back her up. But she had delivered herself
into my hands. . . ."

Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in
his tone between grim jest and grim earnest:

"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon
the whole rather vindictive."

"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's
rather unusual for a sailor. They always seemed to me
the least vindictive body of men in the world."

"H'm! Siniple souls," Marlow muttered moodily.
"Want of opportunity. The world leaves them alone
for the most part. For myself it's towards women that
I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that
it is small. But then the occasions in themselves are
not great. Mainly I resent that pretence of winding us
round their dear little fingers, as of right. Not that the
result ever amounts to much generally. There are so
very few momentous opportunities. It is the assump-
tion that each of us is a combination of a kid and an
imbecile which I find provoking — in a small way; in a
very small way. You needn't stare as though I were
breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not
a women-devouring monster. I am not even what is
technically called 'a brute.' I hope there's enough of a
kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements of
some really good woman eventually — some day . . .

THE TEA-PARTY 151

Some day. Why do you gasp? You don't suppose I
should be afraid of getting married? That supposition
would be offensive . . ."

"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said.

"Very well. But meantime please remember that I
was not married to Mrs. Fyne. That lady's little
finger was none of my legal property. I had not run
off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let
him be wound round as much as his backbone could
stand — or even more, for all I cared. His rushing away
from the discussion on the transparent pretence of
quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a
considerable strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs.
Fyne resolved not to assist her in her eminently femi-
nine occupation of thrusting a stick in the spokes of
another woman's wheel.

" She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She
was familiar and olympian, fenced in by the tea-table,
that excellent symbol of domestic life in its lighter hour
and its perfect security. In a few severely unadorned
words she gave me to understand that she had ventured
to hope for some really helpful suggestion from me. To
this almost chiding declaration — because my vindictive-
ness seldom goes further than a bit of teasing — I said
that I was really doing my best. And being a physi-
ognomist . . .

"'Being what?' she interrupted me.

"'A physiognomist,' I repeated raising my voice a
little. 'A physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the
principles of that science a pointed little chin is a
sufficient ground for interference. You want to inter-
fere — do you not?'

"Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never
been bantered before in her life The late subtle poet's
method of making himself unpleasant was merely

152 CHANCE

savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly
subservient. What other men she knew I cannot tell,
but I assume they must have been gentlemanly
creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet. How
could she recognize my intention? She didn't know
what to make of my tone.

'"Are you serious in what you say?' she asked slowly.
And it was touching. It was as if a very young, con-
fiding girl had spoken. I felt myself relenting.

" 'No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne,' I said. 'I didn't know
I was expected to be serious as well as sagacious. No.
That science is farcical and therefore I am not serious.
It's true that most sciences are farcical except those
which teach us how to put things together.'

'"The question is how to keep these two people
apart,' she struck in. She had recovered. I admired
the quickness of women's wit. Mental agility is a rare
perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they —
just! And tenacious! When they once get hold you
may uproot the tree but you won't shake them off the
branch. In fact the more you shake . . . But
only look at the charm of contradictory perfections'.
No wonder men give in — generally. I won't say I was
actually charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was not delighted
with her. What affected me was not what she dis-
played but something which she could not conceal.
And that was emotion — nothing less. The form of her
declaration was dry, almost peremptory — but not its
tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled
faintly; and as we were looking straight at each other I
observed that her eyes were glistening in a peculiar
manner. She was distressed. And indeed that Mrs.
Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the
evidence of her profound distress. 'By Jove she's
Asperate too/ I thought. This discovery was followed

TJUfi lEA-JfAKTY 153

by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this
unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were all
alike, with their supreme interest aroused only by
fighting with each other about some man: a lover, a
son, a brother.

"'But do you think there's time yet to do anything?'
I asked.

"She had an impatient movement of her shoulders
without detaching herself from the back of the chair.
Time! Of course! It was less than forty -eight hours
since she had followed him to London. ... 1 am
no great clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely
an allusion to special licences. We Wouldn't tell what
might have happened to-day already. But she knew
better, scornfully. Nothing had happened.

"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday
week, — if then.'

"This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause
she added that she should never forgive herself if some
effort were not made, an appeal.

'"To your brother? ' I asked.

"'Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock
train.'

" ' So early as that ! ' I said. But I could not find it in
my heart to pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I
submitted to her several obvious arguments, dictated
apparently by common sense but in reality by my
secret compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside,
with the semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established
existences. They had known each other so little. Just
three weeks. And of that time, too short for the birth
of any serious sentiment, the first week had to be
deducted. They would hardly look at each other to
begin with. Flora barely consented to acknowledge
Captain Anthony's presence, Good morning — good-

154 CHANCE

night — that was all — absolutely the whole extent of
their intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man,
completely unused to the society of girls of any sort
and so shy in fact that he avoided raising his eyes to her
face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was
even inconvenient, embarrassing to her — Mrs. Fyne.
After breakfast Flora would go off by herself for a long
walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne referred to him
at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But he
was actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces.

"This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known
the Fyne children who were at the same time solemn
and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt for all the
world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and
comely young monsters! They just tolerated their
parents and seemed to have a sort of mocking under-
standing among themselves against all outsiders, yet
with no visible affection for each other. They had the
habit of exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man
must have been very trying. They thought their
uncle no doubt a bore and perhaps an ass.

" I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony
formed the habit of crossing the two neighbouring
fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms at a good dis-
tance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and
smoked his pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered
at her brother's indolent habits. He had asked for
books, it is true, but there were but few in the cottage.
He read them through in three days and then continued
to lie contentedly on his back with no other companion
but his pipe. Amazing indolence! The live-long
morning, Mrs. Fyne, busy writing upstairs in the
cottage, could see him out of the window. She had a
very long sight, and these elms were grouped on a rise
of the ground. His indolence was plainly exposed to

THE TEA-PARTY 155

her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. Fyne
wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having
just then 'commenced author,' as you know, she could
not tear herself away from the fascinating novelty.
She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain
Anthony must have had a rather pleasant time in a
quiet way. It was, I remember, a hot dry summer,
favourable to contemplative life out of doors. And
Mrs. Fyne was scandalized. Women don't understand
the force of a contemplative temperament. It simply
shocks them. They feel instinctively that it is the one
which escapes best the domination of feminine in-
fluences. The dear girls were exchanging jeering re
marks about 'lazy uncle Roderick' openly, in hex
indulgent hearing. And it was so strange, she told me,
because as a boy he was anything but indolent. On
the contrary. Always active.

" I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer
a boy. It was an obvious remark but she received it
without favour. She told me positively that the best,
the nicest men remained boys all their lives. She was
disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish
in her brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen
him for fifteen years or thereabouts, except on three or
four occasions for a few hours at a time. No. Not a
trace of the boy, he used to be, left in him.

" She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the
boyhood of little Fyne. I could not imagine what it
might have been like. His dominant trait was clearly
the remnant of still earlier days, because I've never seen
such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young
baby. But where was he all that time? Didn't he
suffer contamination from the indolence of Captain
Anthony? I inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was
very little at the cottage at the time. Some colleague of

156 CHANCE

his was convalescing after a severe illness in a little sea-
side village in the neighbourhood and Fyne went off
every morning by train to spend the day with the elderly
invalid who had no one to look after him. It was a very
praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law,
'the son of the poet, you know,' with whom he had
nothing in common even in the remotest degree. If
Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it
would have been sufficient; but he was not. Still, in
the afternoon, he went sometimes for a slow casual
stroll, by himself of course, the children having defi-
nitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being
busy with that inflammatory book which was to blaze
upon the world a year or more afterwards. It seems
however that she was capable of detaching her eyes from
her task now and then, if only for a moment, because it
was from that garret fitted out for a study that one
afternoon she observed her brother and Flora de Barral
coming down the road side by side. They had met
somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the
other's path, as the saying is, I don't know), and were
returning to tea together. She noticed that they ap-
peared to be conversing without constraint.

" 'I had the simplicity to be pleased,' Mrs. Fyne com-
mented with a dry little laugh. 'Pleased for both
their sakes.' Captain Anthony shook off his indolence
from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora
frequently on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne re-
mained pleased. She could now forget them com-
fortably and give herself up to the delights of audacious
thought and literary composition. Only a week before
the blow fell she, happening to raise her eyes from the
paper, saw two figures seated on the grass under the
shade of the elms. She could make out the white
blouse. There could be no mistake.

THE TEA-PARTY 157

"'I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by
the hedge. They forgot no doubt I was working in the
garret,' she said bitterly. 'Or perhaps they didn't
care. They were right. I am rather a simple per-
son . . .' She laughed again . . . 'I was
incapable of suspecting such duplicity.'

"'Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne — isn't it?'
I expostulated. 'And considering that Captain An-
thony himself . . .'

'"Oh well — perhaps,' she interrupted me. Her eyes
which never strayed away from mine, her set features,
her whole immovable figure, how well I knew those
appearances of a person who has 'made up her mind.'
A very hopeless condition that, specially in women. I
mistrusted her concession so easily, so stonily made.
She reflected a moment. 'Yes. I ought to have
said — ingratitude, perhaps.'

"After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed
the poor girl a little further off as it were — isn't women's
cleverness perfectly diabolic when they are really put
on their mettle? — after having done these things and
also made me feel that I was no match for her, she went
on scrupulously: 'One doesn't like to use that word
either. The claim is very small. It's so little one
could do for her. Still . . .'

" T dare say,' I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the
winds. 'But really, Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dis-
miss your brother like this out of the business . . .'

"'She threw herself at his head,' Mrs. Fyne uttered
firmly.

"'He had no business to put his head in the way,
then,' I retorted with an angry laugh. I didn't restrain
myself because her fixed stare seemed to express the
purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but
it occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting

158 CHANCE

into a downright quarrel with a lady and, besides, my
guest. There was the cold teapot, the emptied cups,
emblems of hospitality. It could not be. I cut short
my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a
slight movement of her shoulder, 'He! Poor man!
Oh come . . .'

"By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile
amiably, to speak with proper softness.

"'My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know
him — not even by sight. It's difficult to imagine a
victim as passive as all that; but granting you the
(I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in
time) innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think
now, frankly, that there is a little of your own fault in
what has happened? You bring them together, you
leave your brother to himself!'

"She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sus-
tained her head in her open palm, casting down her eyes.
Compunction? It was indeed a very off-hand way of
treating a brother come to stay for the first time ip
fifteen years. I suppose she discovered very soon that
she had nothing in common with that sailor, that
stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long
voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scorned
pretences, had gone to her writing which interested her
immensely. A very praiseworthy thing, your sincere
conduct, — if it didn't at times resemble brutality so
much. But I don't think it was compunction. That
sentiment is rare in women . . ."

"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly.

"You know more women than I do," retorted the un-
abashed Marlow. "You make it your business to know
them — don't you? You go about a lot amongst all
sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer.
Well, just try to remember how many instances of

THE TEA-PARTY 159

compunction you have seen. I am ready to take your
bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen
as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a
shadow — a passing shadow! I tell you it is so rare that
you may call it non-existent. They are too passionate.
Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves —
perhaps. No, I don't think for a moment that Mrs.
Fyne felt the slightest compunction at her treatment
of her sea-going brother. What he thought of it who
can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had
been so insistently urged to come. It is possible that
he wondered bitterly — or contemptuously — or humbly.
And it may be that he was only surprised and bored.
Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister
he would have probably taken himself off at the end of
the second day. But perhaps he was afraid of appear-
ing brutal. I am not far removed from the conviction
that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear
nieces, Captain Anthony of the Ferndale must have had
his loneliness brought home to his bosom for the first
time of his life, at an age, thirty-five or thereabouts,
when one is mature enough to feel the pang of such a
discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly dis-
illusioned he wanders about and meets the girl one
afternoon and under the sway of a strong feeling for-
gets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a fact.
There was such a meeting in which the shyness must
have perished before we don't know what encourage-
ment, or in the community of mood made apparent by
some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne
saw them one afternoon coming back to the cottage
together. Don't you think that I have hit on the
psychology of the situation? . . ."

"Doubtless ..." 1 began to ponder.

"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time,"

160 CHANCE

Marlow went on impatiently. "But don't think for a
moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new attitude and toying
thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender.
She murmured:

"'It's the last thing I should have thought could
happen.'

'"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough,'
I suggested dryly.

"She let it pass and with great decision, but as if
speaking to herself:

"'Roderick really must be warned.'

"She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely.
She raised her head and addressed me.

"'I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you
at Mr. Fyne's resistance. We have been always com-
pletely at one on every question. And that we should
differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is
a most painful surprise to me.' Her hand rattled the
teaspoon brusquely by an involuntary movement. 'It
is intolerable/ she added tempestuously — for Mrs.
Fyne that is. I suppose she had nerves of her own like
any other woman.

"Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with
the dog there was silence. I took it for a proof of deep
sagacity. I don't mean on the part of the dog. Ht
was a confirmed fool.

"I said: 'You want absolutely to interfere . . .?'
Mrs. Fyne nodded just perceptibly . . . 'Well—
for my part . . . but I don't really know how
matters stand at the present time. You have had a
letter from Miss de Barral. What does that letter
say?'

"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town, ad-
dre3s,' Mrs. Fyne uttered reluctantly and stopped, I
waited a bit — then exploded. '

THE TEA-PARTY 161

"'Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty?
Does your husband object to that? You don't mean to
say that he wants you to appropriate the girl's clothes? '

"'Mr. Marlow!'

" ' Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion
with your husband, and then, when I ask for informa-
tion on the point, you bring out a valise. And only a
few moments ago you reproached me for not* being
serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two
now.'

"She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which
I concluded at once that she did not mean to show me
the girl's letter, she said that undoubtedly the letter dis-
closed an understanding between Captain Anthony and
Flora de Barral.

" ' What understanding? ' I pressed her. 'An engage-
ment is an understanding.'

'"There is no engagement — not yet,' she said de-
cisively. ' That letter, Mr. Marlow, is couched in very
vague terms. That is why '

"I interrupted her without ceremony.

" ' You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't
it so? Yes? But how should you have liked it if any-
body had tried to interfere between you and Mr. Fyne
at the time when your understanding with each other
could still have been described in vague terms?'

"She had a genuine movement of astonished indig-
nation. It was with the accent of perfect sincerity that
she cried out at me: 'But it isn't at all the same thing!
How can you ! '

" Indeed how could I ! The daughter of a poet and the
daughter of a convict are not comparable in the conse-
quences of their conduct if their necessity may wear at
times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences
I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear

162 CHANCE

healthy girls, and such like, possible causes of em-
barrassment in the future.

" 'No! You can't be serious,' Mrs. Fyne's smoulder-
ing resentment broke out again. 'You haven't
thought-

'"i

'Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still
thinking. I am even trying to think like you.'

"'Mr. Marlow,' she said earnestly. 'Believe me
that I really am thinking of my brother, in all this . . . l
I assured her that I quite believed she was. For there
is no" law of nature making it impossible to think of
more than one person at a time. Then I said :

" ' She has told him all about herself of course.'

" 'All about her life,' assented Mrs. Fyne with an air,
however, of making some mental reservation which I
did not pause to investigate. 'Her life!' I repeated.
'That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it.'

"'Horrible,' Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready
frankness very creditable under the circumstances, and
a warmth of tone which made me look at her with a
friendly eye. 'Horrible! No! You can't imagine the
sort of vulgar people she became dependent on . . .
You know her father never attempted to see her while
he was still at large. After his arrest he instructed that
relative of his — the odious person who took her away
from Brighton — not to let his daughter come to the
court during the trial. He refused to hold any com'
munication with her whatever.'

" I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of
the view she had years ago of de Barral clinging to the
child at the side of his wife's grave and later on of these
two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes by
the sea. Figures from Dickens — pregnant with pathos.

CHAPTER SIX

FLORA

" 'A vert singular prohibition,' remarked Mrs. Fyne
after a short silence. 'He seemed to love the child.'

"She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have
been the sullenness of a man unconscious of guilt and
standing at bay to fight his 'persecutors,' as he called
them; or else the fear of a softer emotion weakening his
defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying
ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her
father in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a
swindler — proving the possession of a certain moral
delicacy.

" Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed
it might have been mere callousness. But the people
amongst whom the girl had fallen had positively not
a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain.
Mrs. Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of
their abominable vulgarity. Flora used to tell her
something of her life in that household, over there,
down Limehouse way. It was incredible. It passed
Mrs. Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of moral
savagery which she could not have thought possible.

" I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could
imagine easily how the poor girl must have been be-
wildered and hurt at her reception in that household — ■
envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the
tender mercies of people without any fineness either of
/eeling or mind, unable to understand her misery,

163

164 CHANCE

grossly curious, mistaking her manner for disdain, her
silent shrinking for pride. The wife of the 'odious
person' was witless and fatuously conceited. Of the
two girls of the house one was pious and the other a
romp; both were coarse-minded — if they may be
credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous
men of the family were dense and grumpy, or dense and
jocose. None in that grubbing lot had enough hu-
manity to leave her alone. At first she was made much
of, in an offensively patronizing manner. The con-
nection with the great de Barral gratified their vanity
even in the moment of the smash. They dragged her to
their place of worship, whatever it might have been,
where the congregation stared at her, and they gave
parties to other beings like themselves at which they
exhibited her with ignoble self-satisfaction. She did
not know how to defend herself from their impor-
tunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst
them, a passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if
she were flayed. After the trial her position became
still worse. On the least occasion and even on no
occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her
dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects,
the romping girl teased her with contemptuous refer-
ences to her accomplishments, and was always trying to
pick insensate quarrels with her about some 'fellow'
or other. The mother backed up her girls invariably,
adding her own silly, wounding remarks. I must say
they were probably not aware of the ugliness of their
conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a
matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in
origin, in manner, in the spirit of mean selfishness.
These women, too, seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of
row and were always ready to combine together to make
awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy

FLORA 165

pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been re-
duced to rage and despair, had her most secret feelings
lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness to
which common human nature can descend — I won't
say a propos de bottes as the French would excellently
put it, but literally d propos of some mislaid cheap lace
trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was mak-
ing for herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the
grossest scenes which, in their repetition, must have had
a deplorable effect on the unformed character of the
most pitiful of de Barral's victims. I have it from Mrs.
Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at half-
past nine on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked
bareheaded, I believe, just as she ran out of the house,
from somewhere in Poplar to the neighbourhood of
Sloane Square — without stopping, without drawing
breath, if only for a sob.

"'We were having some people to dinner,' said the
anxious sister of Captain Anthony.

"She had heard the front door bell and wondered
what it might mean. The parlourmaid managed to
whisper to her without attracting attention. The
servants had been frightened by the invasion of that
wild girl in a muddy skirt and with wisps of damp hair
sticking to her pale cheeks. But they had seen her
before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the
last.

"Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs.
Fyne ran upstairs.

"'I found her in the night nursery crouching on the
floor, her head resting on the cot of the youngest of my
girls. The eldest was sitting up in bed looking at her
across the room.'

"Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne
raised her up, took her over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing*

166 CHANCE

room on the other side of the landing, to a fire by which
she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to
go back to her guests.

"A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to
the Fynes. Afterwards they both went up and inter-
viewed the girl. She jumped up at their entrance.
She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry
— with the heat of rage.

"I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic,
solemnly listening, solemnly retreating to the marital
bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, and, fortunately,
there was a bed which could be made up for her in the
dressing-room.

'"But what could one do after all!' concluded Mrs.
Fyne.

"And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the
difficulty of the problem and the readiness (at any
rate) of good intentions, made me, as usual, feel more
kindly towards her.

"Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to 1
start for his office, the 'odious personage,' turned up,
not exactly unexpected perhaps, but startling all the
same, if only by the promptness of his action. From
what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that
without being very perceptibly less 'odious' than his
family he had in a rather mysterious fashion interposed
his authority for the protection of the girl. 'Not that
he cares, ' explained Flora. ' I am sure he does not. I
could not stand being liked by any of these people. If
I thought he liked me I would drown myself rather
than go back with him. '

"For of course he had come to take 'Florrie' home.
The scene was the dining-room — breakfast interrupted,
dishes growing cold, little Fyne's toast growing leathery,
Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, the news-

FLORA 167

paper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid
in her place with the girl sitting beside her — the 'odious
person,' who had bustled in with hardly a greeting,
looking from Fyne to Mrs 1 . Fyne as though he were
inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and
then beginning ironically his discourse. He did not
apologize for disturbing Fyne and his 'good lady' at
breakfast, because he knew they did not want (with
a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be
helped. He came the first possible moment because
he had his business to attend to. He wasn't drawing
a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a luxuriously
furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an em-
ployer of labour and was bound to give a good example.
"I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed
quietly, the consternation his presence brought to the
bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned briskly to
the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had
remained all three silent and inanimate. He turned to
the girl: 'What's this game, Florrie? You had better
give it up. If you expect me to run all over London
looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff
with your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I
can't afford it.'

" Tiff — was the sort of definition to take one's breath
away, having regard to the fact that both the word
convict and the word pauper had been used a moment
before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about
the lace trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at
least the girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before.
The word tiff in connection with her tale had a peculiar
savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made a sound.
The relative of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a
display of magnanimity. 'Auntie told me to tell you
Bhe's, sorry — there! And Amelia (the romping sister)

168 CHANCE

shan't worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought
to be satisfied. Remember your position.'

"Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the
room he addressed himself to Mrs. Fyne with stolid
effrontery —

'""What I say is that people should be good-natured.
She can't stand being chaffed. She puts on her grand
airs. She won't take a bit of a joke from people as
good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't
like it. And that's how trouble begins.'

"Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes,
which, if the stories of our childhood as to the power
of the human eye are true, ought to have been enough
to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from
the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking,
into the poor girl and prepared to drag her away for a
prey to his cubs of both sexes.

'"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and
coat. I've got them outside in the cab.'

"Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window.
A four-wheeler stood before the gate under the weeping
sky. The driver in his conical cape and tarpaulin hat,
streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as
though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from
a pond. Mrs. Fyne found some relief in looking at that,
miserable sight, away from the room in which the voice
of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation
exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful
fold. 'Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on
you all day here.'

"Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head
away from the window. Fyne on the hearthrug had
to listen and to look on too. I shall not try to form a
surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their
yery goodness must have made ^ very anxious. The

FLORA 169

girl's hands were lying in her lap; her head was lowered
as if in deep thought; and the other went on delivering
a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it,
the sinfulness of pride was pointed out — together with
the proverbial fact that it 'goes before a fall.' There
were also some sound remarks as to the danger of non-
sensical notions and the disadvantages of a quick temper.
It sets one's best friends against one. 'And if anybody
ever wanted friends in the world it's you, my girl.'
Even respect for parental authority was invoked. 'In
the first hour of his trouble your father wrote to me to
take care of you — don't forget it. Yes, to me, just a
plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End
friends. You can't get over that. And a father's a
father no matter what a mess he's got himself into. You
ain't going to throw over your own father — are you?'

"It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd
than cruel or more cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne,
with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to detect a jeering
intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something
more vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly
over her shoulder and saw the girl raise her two hands
to her head, then let them fall again on her lap. Fyne
in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy spell
— bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain.
It was a short pause of perfect silence, and then that
'odious creature' (he must have been really a remarka-
ble individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm.

"'Well? . . .' Again a silence. 'If you have
fixed it up with the lady and gentleman present here
for your board and lodging you had better say so. I
don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of.
But I wonder how your father will take it when he
comes out ... or don't you expect him ever to
come out?'

170 CHANCE

"At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the
girl's eyes. There was that in them which made her
shut her own. She also felt as though she would have
liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained
herself, however; and the 'plain man' passed in his
appalling versatility from sarcasm to veiled menace.

"'You have — eh? Well and good. But before I go
home let me ask you, my girl, to think if by any chance
you throwing us over like this won't be rather bad for
your father later on? Just think it over.'

"He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mys-
tery. She jumped up so suddenly that he started back.
Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell was removed
from her husband. But the girl dropped again into
the chair and turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne.
This time it was no accidental meeting of fugitive
glances. It was a deliberate communication. To
my question as to its nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not
know. 'Was it appealing?' I suggested. 'No,' she
said. 'Was it frightened, angry, crushed, resigned?'
'No! No! Nothing of these.' But it had frightened
her. She remembered it to this day. She had been
ever since fancying she could detect the lingering re-
flection of that look in all the girl's glances. In the at-
tentive, in the casual — even in the grateful glances
— in the expression of the softest moods.

"Has she her soft moods, then?' I asked with inter-
est.

" Mrs. Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded ,
not my inquiry. All her mental energy was concen-
trated on the nature of that memorable glance. The
general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances
occupy a considerable place in the self-expression of
women. Mrs. Fyne was trying honestly to give me
some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own uneasi-

FLORA 171

mess as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as
you see sometimes a child do (what is delightful in
women is that they so often resemble intelligent chil-
dren — I mean the crustiest, the sourest, the most
battered of them do — at times). She was frowning, I
say, and I was beginning to smile faintly at her when
all at once she came out with something totally un-
expected.

"'It was horribly merry,' she said.
"I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden
gravity because she looked at me in a friendly manner.

"'Yes, Mrs. Fyne,' I said, smiling no longer. 'I see.
It would have been horrible even on the stage.'

Ah ! ' she interrupted me — and I really believe her
change of attitude back to folded arms was meant to
theck a shudder. 'But it wasn't on the stage, and it
was not with her lips that she laughed.'

" ' Yes. It must have been horrible, ' I assented. 'And
then she had to go away ultimately — I suppose. You
didn't say anything? '

* ' No, ' said Mrs. Fyne. ' I rang the bell and told one
of the maids to go and bring the hat and coat out of the
cab. And then we waited.'

"I don't think that there ever was such waiting, un-
less possibly in a jail at some moment or other on the
morning of an execution. The servant appeared with
the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an
execution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered
a breakfast, Mrs. Fyne, anxious that the white-faced
girl should swallow something warm (if she could)
before leaving her house for an interminable drive
through raw cold air in a damp four-wheeler — Mrs.
Fyne broke the awful silence: 'You really must try
to eat something,' in her best resolute manner. She
turned to the 'odious person/ with the same determina-

172 CHANCE

tion. 'Perhaps you will sit down and have a cup of
coffee, too.'

"The worthy 'employer of labour' sat down. He
might have been awed by Mrs. Fyne's peremptory
manner — for she did not think of conciliating him then.
He sat down provisionally, like a man who finds himself
much against his will in doubtful company. He ac-
cepted ungraciously the cup handed to him by Mrs.
Fyne, took an unwilling sip or two and put it down as
if there were some moral contamination in the coffee
of these 'swells.' Between whiles he directed mysteri-
ously inexpressive glances at little Fyne, who, I gather,
had no breakfast that morning at all. Neither had the
girl. She never moved her hands from her lap till her
appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full.

" ' Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this
lady's kind offer I may just as well take you home at
©nee. I want to begin my day— I do.'

"After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes
while Flora was putting on her hat and jacket, the
Fynes without moving, without saying anything, saw
these two leave the room.

" ' She never looked back at us, ' said Mrs. Fyne. ' She
just followed him out. I've never had such a crushing
impression of the miserable dependence of girls — of
women. This was an extreme case. But a young
man' — any man — could have gone to break stones on
the roads or something of that kind — or enlisted —
or '

" It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high
roads and by-ways to pick up a living even when
dignity, independence or existence itself are at stake.
But what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was
my profound surprise at the fact of that respectable
citizen being so willing to keep in his home the poor girl

FLORA 173

for whom it seemed there was no place in the world.
And not only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit
him with generous impulses. For it seemed obvious
to me from what I had learned that, to put it mildly,
he was not an impulsive person.

" 'I confess that I can't understand his' notive,' I ex-
claimed.

" This is exactly what John wondered at, at first, ' said
Mrs. Fyne. By that time an intimacy — if not exactly
confidence — had sprung up between us which permitted
her in this discussion to refer to her husband as John.
'You know he had not opened his lips all that time,'
she pursued. 'I don't blame his restraint. On the
contrary. What could he have said? I could see he
was observing the man very thoughtfully.'

And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated,'
I said. 'That's an excellent way of coming to a con-
clusion. And may I ask at what conclusion he had
managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease tc
wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit human-
ity to be the explanation. It would be too monstrous."

"It was nothing of the sort Mrs. Fyne assured me
with some resentment, as though I had aspersed little
Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set himself
the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I
should not have thought him capable of so much cyni-
cism. He said to himself that for people of that sort
(religious fears or the vanity of righteousness put aside)
money — not great wealth, but money, just a little
money — is the measure of virtue, of expediency, of
wisdom — of pretty well everything. But the girl was
absolutely destitute. The father was in prison after
the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of
modern times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that
this was just it. The great smash, in the great dust

174 CHANCE

of vanishing millions! Was it possible that they all
had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, some-
where, something palpable; some fragment of the
fabric left?

'"That's it,' had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife
by this explosive unsealing of his lips less than half an
hour after the departure of de Barral's cousin with de
Barral's daughter. It was still in the dining-room, very
near the time for him to go forth affronting the elements
in order to put in another day's work in his country's
service. All he could say at the moment in elucidation
of this breakdown from his usual placid solemnity was—

'"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some
plunder put away somewhere.'

"This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his com-
ment on it was that a good many bankrupts had been
known to have taken such a precaution. It was possi-
ble in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display
of cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely
probable.

"He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral
certainly did not take any one into his confidence.
But the beastly relative had made up his low mind
that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupid-
ity, but he had clearly conceived the notion of making
a claim on de Barral when de Barral came out of prison
on the strength of having 'looked after' (as he would
have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed
his hopes, such as they were, in secret, and it is to be
supposed kept them even from his wife.

"I could see it very well. That belief accounted for
his mysterious air while he interfered in favour of the
girl. He was the only protector she had. It was as
though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded
bv _ treachery and lies stifling every better impulse,

FLORA 175

every instinctive aspiration of her soul to trust and to
love. It would have been enough to drive a fine nature
into the madness of universal suspicion — into any sort
of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour
will stand by one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps.
But from my recollection of Flora de Barral I feared
that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had cried
at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal
was certainly free from duplicity. He was frank and
simple and ridiculous. The indignation of the girl at
his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny but not
humorous.

"As you may imagine I was not very anxious to re-
sume the discussion on the justice, expediency, effective-
ness or what not, of Fyne's journey to London. It
isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the
yorch with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet
there. Could they have gone to sleep?) What I
felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would
come out damaged from that campaign. And no
man will willingly put himself in the way of moral
damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. I
"much preferred to hear something more of the girl.
I said —

" 'And so she went away with that respectable ruffian.'
"Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly — 'What
else could she have done?' I agreed with her by an-
other hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a girl like
Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic
seamstress or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have
known how to begin. She was the captive of the mean-
est conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for
it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are
born curiously unfitted for the fate awaiting them on
this earth. As I don't want you to think that I am

176 CHANCE

unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she failed
decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and,
I believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that
an angel would have failed likewise. It's no use going
into details; suffice it to state that, before the year was
out she was again at the Fynes' door.

"This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His
large pale face wore a smile of inane cunning soured by
annoyance. His clothes were new and the indescriba-
ble smartness of their cut, a genre which had never been
obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne,
who came out into the hall with her hat on; for she was
about to go out to hear a new pianist (a girl) in a friend's
douse. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne easily begged
her not to let 'that silly thing go back to us any more.'
There had been, he said, nothing but 'ructions' at home
about her for the last three weeks. Everybody in the
family was heartily sick of quarrelling. His governor
had charged him to bring her to this address and say
that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all
there was in it. She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a
plain, honest English home and she was better out of it.

"The young pimply -faced fellow was vexed by this
job his governor had sprung on him. It was the cause
of his missing an appointment for that afternoon with
a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to.
But he meant to dash back and try for a sight of her
that evening yet 'if he were to burst over it.' 'Good-
bye, Florrie. Good luck to you — and I hope I'll never
see your face again.'

"With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the
hall-door wide open. Mrs. Fyne had not found a
word to say. She had been too much taken aback
even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind
bo grab the girl's arm just as she, too, was running out

FLORA 177

into the street — with the haste, I suppose, of despair
and to keep I don't know what tragic tryst.

"'You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne,'
I said. 'I presume she meant to get away. That
girl is no comedian — if I am any judge.'

"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in.'

"Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth.
You see I was in the very act of letting myself out
when these two appeared. So that, when that unpleas-
ant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora.
It was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called
to the servants to come and shut the door.'

"As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't
know which, I visualized the story for myself. I really
can't help it. And the vision of Mrs. Fyne dressed
for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in
wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl, had a cer-
tain dramatic fascination.

" 'Really ! ' I murmured.

"'Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled,' said
Mrs. Fyne. She compressed her lips for a moment
and then added: 'as to her being a comedian that's
another question.'

"Mrs. Fyne' had returned to her attitude of folded
arms. I saw before me the daughter of the refined poet
accepting life whole with its unavoidable conditions of
which one of the first is the instinct of self-preservation
and the egoism of every living creature. 'The fact remains
nevertheless that you — yourself — have, in your own
words, pulled her in,' I insisted in a jocular tone, w'th
a serious intention.

"'What was one to do?' exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with
almost comic exasperation. 'Are you reproaching me
with being too impulsive?'

"And she went on telling me that she was not that k

178 CHANCE

in the least. One of the recommendations she always
insisted on (to the girl-friends, I imagine) was to be on
guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been
there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it
would be haunting me to this day. Nobody unless
made of iron would have allowed a human being with
a face like that to rush out alone into the streets.

"'And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?' I asked.

'"No, not now,' she said implacably. 'Perhaps if I
had let her go it might have done. . . . Don't con-
clude, though, that I think she was playing a comedy
then, because after struggling at first she ended by re-
maining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed
in our arms, mine and the maid's who came running
up in response to my calls, and . . . '

"'And the door was then shut,' I completed the
phrase in my own way.

'"Yes, the door was shut.' Mrs. Fyne lowered and
raised her head slowly.

"I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am
certain and that is that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to
the musical function that afternoon. She was no doubt
considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing
privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since,
has become one of the recognized performers?. Mrs.
Fyne did not dare leave her house. As to the feelings
of little Fyne when he came home from the office, via
his club, just half an hour before dinner, I have no in-
formation. But I venture to affirm that in the main
they were kindly, though it is quite possible that in
the first moment of surprise he had to keep down a
swear-word or two.

"The long and the short of it all is that next day the
Fynes made up their minds to take into their confidence

FLORA 179

a certain wealthy old lady. With certain old ladies the
passing years bring back a sort of mellowed youthful-
ness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty,
readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much
interested: 'Do let me see the poor thing!' She was
accordingly allowed to see Flora de Barral in Mrs.
Fyne's drawing-room on a day when there was no one
else there, and she preached to her with charming, sym-
pathetic authority: 'The only way to deal with our
troubles, my dear child, is to forget them. You must
forget yours. It's very simple. Look at me. I al-
ways forget mine. At your age one ought to be cheer-
ful.'

"Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said
to that lady: 'I do hope the child will manage to be cheer-
ful. I can't have sad faces near me. At my age one
needs cheerful companions. '

"And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to
Bournemouth for the winter months in the quality of
reader and companion. She had said to her with kindly
jocularity: 'We shall have a good time together. I
am not a grumpy old woman.' But on their return
to London she sought Mrs. Fyne at once. She had
discovered that Flora was not naturally cheerful. When
she made efforts to be it was still worse. The old lady
couldn't stand the strain of that. And then, to have
the whole thing out, she could not bear to have for a
companion any one who did not love her. She was
certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She
couldn't say. Moreover, she had caught the girl look-
ing at her in a peculiar way at times. Oh no! — it was
not an evil look — it was an unusual expression which one
could not understand. And when one remembered
that her father was in prison, shut up together with a
lot of criminals and so on — it made one uncomfortable.

180 CHANCE

If the child had only tried to forget her troubles! But
she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And
that was somewhat perverse — wasn't it? Upon the
whole, she thought it would be better perhaps

"Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken con-
clusion :

"'Oh certainly! Certainly,' wondering to herself
what was to be done with Flora next; but she was not
very much surprised at the change in the old lady's
view of Flora de Barral. She almost understood it.

"What came next was a German family, the conti-
nental acquaintances of the wife of one of Fyne's col-
leagues in the Home Office. Flora of the enigmatical
glances was dispatched to them without much reflection.
As it was not considered absolutely necessary to take
them into full confidence, they neither expected the
girl to be specially cheerful nor were they discomposed
unduly by the indescribable quality of her glances.
The German woman was quite ordinary; there were
two boys to look after; they were ordinary, too, I pre-
sume; and Flora, I understand, was very attentive to
them. If she taught them anything it must have been
by inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing
of teaching. But it was mostly 'conversation' which
was demanded from her. Flora de Barral conversing
with two small German boys, regularly, industriously,
conscientiously in order to keep herself alive in the
world which held for her the past we know and the
future of an even more undesirable quality — seems to
me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it
was not so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully
drugged by her task. She had learned to 'converse'
all day long, mechanically, absently, as if in a trance.
An uneasy trance it must have been! Her worst
moments were when off duty — alone in the evening, shut

FLORA 181

up in her own little room, her dulled thoughts waking
up slowly till she started into the full consciousness of
her position, like a person waking up in contact with
something venomous — a snake, for instance — experi-
encing a mad impulse to fling the thing away and run
off screaming to hide somewhere.

"At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used
to write to Mrs. Fyne, not regularly but fairly often. I
don't know how long she would have gone on 'con-
versing ' and, incidentally, helping to supervise the beau-
tifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do German
household, if the man of it had not developed in the
intervals of his avocations (he was a merchant and a
thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological
resemblance to the Bournemouth old lady. It ap-
peared that he, too, wanted to be loved.

"He wns Act, however, of a conquering tempera-
ment — a kiss-snatching, door-bursting type of liber-
tine. In the very act of straying from the path of
virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would
have been perhaps better for Flora if he had been a
mere brute. But he set about his sinister enterprise
in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; and
thought he would be safe with a pretty orphan. The
girl for all her experience was still too innocent, and
indeed not yet sufficiently aware of herself as a woman,
to mistrust these masked approaches. She did not
see them, in fact. She thought him sympathetic — ■
the first expressively sympathetic person she had ever
met. She was so innocent that she could not under-
stand the fury of the German woman. For, as you
may imagine, the wifely penetration was not to be de-
ceived for any great length of time — the more so that
the wife was older than the husband. The man with
the peculiar cowardice of respectability Dever said a

182 CHANCE

word in Flora's defence. He stood by and heard hei
reviled in the most abusive terms, only nodding and
frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you
the idea of the girl's innocence when I say that at first
she actually thought this storm of indignant reproaches
was caused by the discovery of her real name and her
relation to a convict. She had been sent out under an
assumed name — a highly recommended orphan of
honourable parentage. Her distress, her burning
cheeks, her endeavours to express her regret for this
deception were taken for a confession of guilt. 'You
attempted to bring dishonour to my home, ' the German
woman screamed at her.

"Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de
Barral, who felt the shame but did not believe in the
guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, 'Nevertheless I
am as honourable as you are.' And then the Germar
woman nearly went into a fit from rage. 'I shall have
you thrown out into the street.'

" Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I
believe, but she was bundled bag and baggage on board
a steamer for London. Did I tell you these people
lived in Hamburg? Well yes — sent to the docks late
on a rainy winter evening in charge of some sneering
lackey or other who behaved to her insolently and left
her on deck burning with indignation, her hair half
down, shaking with excitement, and truth to say
scared as near as possible into hysterics. If it had not
been for the stewardess who, without asking questions,
good soul, took charge of her quietly in the ladies' saloon
(luckily it was empty) it is by no means certain she
would ever have reached England. I can't tell if a
straw ever saved a drowning man, but I know that a
mere glance is enough to make despair pause. For in
truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creature.'

FLORA 183

of despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the out-
come of mere mental weariness — not an act of savage
energy but the final symptom of complete collapse.
The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's steward-
ess, who did not seem aware of other human agonies
than seasickness, who talked of the probable weather
of the passage — it would be a rough night, she thought
— and who insisted in a professionally busy manner,
'Let me make you comfortable down below at once,
miss,' as though she were thinking of nothing else but
her tip — was enough to dissipate the shades of death
gathering round the mortal weariness of bewildered
thinking which makes the idea of non-existence welcome
so often to the young. Flora de Barral did lie down, and
it may be presumed she slept. At any rate she sur*
vived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs.
Fyne all about it, concealing nothing and receiving no
rebuke — for Mrs. Fyne's opinions had a large freedom
in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, that a woman
holds an absolute right — or possesses a perfect excuse — ■
to escape in her own way from a man-mismanaged
world.

"What is to be noted is that even in London, having
had time to take a reflective view, poor Flora was far
from being certain as to the true inwardness of her vio-
lent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with an
almost maddened resentment.

" 'And did you enlighten her on the point? ' I ventured
to ask.

"Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical
acceptance of all the necessities which ought not to be.
Something had to be said, she murmured. She had
told the girl enough to make her come to the right con-
clusion by herself.

184 CHANCE

"'And she did?'

" 'Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose, ' retorted Mrs.
Fyne tartly.

" ' Then her education is completed, ' I remarked with
some bitterness. 'Don't you think she ought to be
given a chance?'

"Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning.

" 'Not this one, ' she snapped in a quite feminine way.
'It's all very well for you to plead, but I '

" ' I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural
to ask what you thought. '

" 'It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my
feelings. You may guess,' she added in a softer tone,
'that my feelings are mostly concerned with my
brother. We were very fond of each other. The
difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose
you know he is a little younger than I am. He was a
sensitive boy. . He had the habit of brooding. It is
no use concealing from you that neither of us was
happy at home. You have heard, no doubt. . . .
Yes? Well, I was made still more unhappy and hurt—
I don't mind telling you that. He made his way to
some distant relations of our mother's people who I
believe were not known to my father at all. I don't
wish to judge their action.'

"I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne
was not very communicative in general but he was
proud of his father-in-law — 'Carleon Anthony, the
poet, you know.' Proud of his celebrity without ap-
proving of his character. It was on that account, I
strongly suspect, that he seized with avidity upon the
theory of poetical genius being allied to madness, which
he got hold of in some idiotic book everybody was
reading a few years ago. It struck him as being truth
itself — illuminating like the sun. He adopted it de-

FLORA 185

voutly. He bored me with it sometimes. Once, just
to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory which he
regarded as so incontrovertible did not cause him some
uneasiness about his wife and the dear girls? He trans-
fixed me with a pitying stare and requested me in his
deep solemn voice to remember the 'well-established
fact' that genius was not transmissible.

"I said only 'Oh! Isn't it?' and he thought he had
silenced me by an unanswerable argument. But he
continued to talk of his glorious father-in-law, and it
was in the course of that conversation that he told me
how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late
wife naturally addressed themselves to him in consider-
able concern, suggesting a friendly consultation as to
the boy's future, the incensed (but always refined)
poet wrote in answer a letter of mere polished badinage
which offended mortally the Liverpool people. This
witty outbreak of what was in fact mortification and
rage appeared to them so heartless that they simply
kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he
was in their way but because he begged hard to be
allowed to go.

" 'Oh! You do know, ' said Mrs. Fyne after a pause.
'Well — I felt myself very much abandoned. Then
his choice of life — so extraordinary, so unfortunate, I
may say. I was very much grieved. I should have
liked him to have been distinguished — or at any rate
to remain in the social sphere where we could have had
common interests, acquaintances, thoughts. Don't
think that I am estranged from him. But the precise
truth is that I do not know him. I was most painfully
affected when he was here by the difficulty of finding
a single topic we could discuss together.'

"While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let
my thoughts wander out of the room to little Fyne who

186 CHANCE

by leaving me alone with his wife had, so to speak,
entrusted his domestic peace to my honour.

"'Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that
it would be reasonable under the circumstances to let
your brother take care of himself?'

'"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't
take care of himself in a given instance?' She hesi-
tated in a funny, bashful manner which aroused my
interest. Then : ' Sailors I believe are very susceptible, '
she added with forced assurance.

"I burst into a laugh which only increased the cold-
ness of her observing stare.

"'They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear
Mrs. Fyne, you had better give it up ! It only makes
your husband miserable. '

" 'And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first
difference. . . . '

"'Regarding Miss de Barral?' I asked.

" 'Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that
this girl should be the occasion. I think he really
ought to give way. '

"She turned her chair round a little and picking up
the book I had been reading in the morning began
to turn the leaves absently. s

"Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself
to leave the room. Its atmosphere had become hope-
less for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may smile.
But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough
sagacity to understand that.

" I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumber-
ing at Fyne's feet. The muscular little man leaning
on his elbow and gazing over the fields presented a
forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing
I was alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation
of the green landscape.

FLORA 187

"I said loudly and distinctly: 'I've come out to smoke
a cigarette,' and sat down near him on the little bench.
Then lowering my voice: 'Tolerance is an extremely
difficult virtue,' I said. 'More difficult for some than
heroism. More difficult than compassion.'

"I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough
that he would not like this opening. General ideas
were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I lighted
a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give
another moment to the consideration of the advice —
the diplomatic advice I had made up my mind to bowl
him over with. And I continued in subdued tones:

'"I have been led to make these remarks by what I
have discovered since you left Us. I suspected from
the first. And now I am certain. What your wife
cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being
what she is.'

"He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away
from him and went on steadily. 'That is — her being
a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne's mental
attitude towards society with its injustices, with its
atrocious or ridiculous conventions. As against them
there is no audacity of action your wife's mind refuses
to sanction. The doctrine which I imagine she stuffs
into the pretty heads of your girl-guests is almost venge-
ful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword doctrine. How
far the lesson is wise is not for me to say. I don't
permit myself to judge. I seem to see her very de-
lightful disciples singeing themselves with the torches,
and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. Fyne's
furnishing.'

'"My wife holds her opinions very seriously,' mur-
mured Fyne suddenly.

'"Yes. No doubt,' I assented in a low voice as be-
fore. 'But it is a mere intellectual exercise. What I

188 CHANCE

see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. Fyne ceases to
be tolerant. In other words, that she can't forgive
Miss de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a
woman. And yet this is not only reasonable and natu-
ral, but it is her only chance. A woman against the
world has no resources but in herself. Her only means
of action is to be what she is. You understand what
I mean.'

"Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he under-
stood. But he did not seem interested. What he
expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult
situation. I don't know how far credible this may
sound, to less solemn married couples, but to remain at
variance with his wife seemed to him a considerable
incident. Almost a disaster.

'"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to
her brother,' he said. 'And after all if anything. . . .'

"I became a little impatient but without raising my
tone: 'What thing?' I asked. 'The liability to get
penal servitude is so far like genius that it isn't heredi-
tary. And what else can be objected to the girl? All
the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would
use up vainly in the danger and fatigue of a struggle
with society, may be turned into devoted attachment
to the man who offers her a way of escape from what
can be only a life of moral anguish. I don't mention
the physical difficulties.'

"Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I
discovered that he was attentive. He made the re-
mark that I should have said all this to his wife. It
was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs.
Fyne up. I asked him if his impression was that his
wife meant to entrust him with a, letter for her brother.

"No. He didn't think so. There were certain
reasons which made Mrs. Fyne unwilling to commit

FLORA 189

her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with
them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in
his refusal she would make up her mind to write.

"She does not wish me to go unless with a full con-
viction that she is right,' said Fyne solemnly.

"She's very exacting,' I commented. And then I
reflected that she was used to it. 'Would nothing
else do for once? '

"You don't mean that I should give way — do you?'
asked Fyne in a whisper of alarmed suspicion.

"As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright
sink into him. He fidgeted. If the word may be
used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. And when
the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels,
so to speak, he became very still. He sat gazing
stonily into space bounded by the yellow, burnt-up
slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away.
The face of the down showed the white scar of the
quarry where not more than sixteen hours before Fyne
and I had been groping in the dark with horrible ap-
prehension of finding under our hands the shattered
body of a girl. For myself I had in addition the mem-
ory of my meeting with her. She, was certainly walk-
ing very near the edge — courting a sinister solution.
But, now having by the most unexpected chance come
upon a man, she had found another way to escape from
the world. Such world as was open to her — without
shelter, without bread, without honour. The best she
could have found in it would have been a precarious dole
of pity diminishing as her years increased. The appeal
of the abandoned child Flora to the sympathies of the
Fynes had been irresistible. But now she had become
a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable
front to a particularly feminine transaction. I may say
triumphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs. Fyne did

190 CHANCE

not want women to be women. Her theory was that
they should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless
nuisances. An offended theorist dwelt in her bosom
somewhere. In what way she expected Flora de Barral
to set about saving herself from a most miserable ex-
istence I can't conceive; but I verily believe that she
would have found it easier to forgive the girl an actual
crime; say the rifling of the Bournemouth old lady's
desk, for instance. And then — for Mrs. Fyne was very
much of a woman herself — her sense of proprietorship
was very strong within her; and though she had not
much use for her brother, yet she did not like to see
him annexed by another woman. By a chit of a girl.
And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that, in
this world, the luckless have no right to their opportuni-
ties — as if misfortune were a legal disqualification.
Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be in a
man) had more stability. A good deal of his sympa-
thy survived. Indeed I heard him murmur ' Ghastly
nuisance,' but I knew it was of the integrity of his
domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes
on the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the
porch I suggested jn a subdued impersonal tone:
'Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?'

"I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed
through his teeth in unexpectedly figurative style
that it would take a lot to persuade him to 'push under
the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently
plucky' — and snorted. He was still gazing at the dis-
tant quarry, and I think he was affected by that sight.
I assured him that I was far from advising him to do
anything so cruel. I am convinced he had always
doubted the soundness of my principles, because he
turned on me swiftly as though he had been on the
watch for a lapse from the straight path.

FLORA 191

Then what do you mean ? That I should pretend ! '

'"No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I
may however tell you that if I had to make a choice I
would rather do something immoral than something
cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the
efficacy of the interference, the whole question is re-
duced to your consenting to do what your wife wishes
you to do. That would be acting like a gentleman,
surely. And acting unselfishly too, because I can very
well understand how distasteful it may be to you.
Generally speaking, an unselfish action is a moral
action. I'll tell you what. I'll go with you. '

"He turned around and stared at me with surprise
and suspicion. 'You would go with me?' he re-
peated.

'"You don't understand,' I said, amused at the in-
credulous disgust of his tone. 'I must run up to town,'
to-morrow morning. Let us go together. You have a
set of travelling chessmen.'

"His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emo-
tions, relaxed to a certain extent at the idea of a game.
I told him that as I had business at the Docks he should
have my company to the very ship.

'"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East
by improving conversation, ' I encouraged him.

'"My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel — the
Eastern Hotel,' he said, becoming sombre again. 'I
haven't the slightest idea where it is. '

" 'I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with
the comfortable conviction that you are doing what's
right since it pleases a lady and cannot do any harm
to anybody whatever.'

* ' ' You think so ? No harm to anybody ? ' he repeated
doubtfully.

"'I assure you it's not the slightest use,' I said with

in CHANCE

all possible emphasis which seemed only to increase the
solemn discontent of his expression.

" 'But in order that my going should be a perfectly
candid proceeding I must first convince my wife that
it isn't the slightest use,' he objected portentously.

" 'Oh, you casuist! ' I said. And I said nothing more
because at that moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out into
the porch. We rose together at her appearance. Her
clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both
critically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne
stooped at once to release the dog. He was some time
about it; then simultaneously with his recovery of up-
right position the animal passed at one bound from pro-
foundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. En-
veloped in the tornado of his inane scurryings and bark-
ings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand extended to me woodenly
and bowed over it with deference She walked down
the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and
was waiting by the open gate. They passed out and
walked up the road surrounded by a low cloud of dust
raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two
figures progressing side by side with rectitude and pro-
priety, and (I don't know why) looking to me as if
they had annexed the whole cOuntry-side. Perhaps
it was that they had impressed me somehow with the
sense of their superiority. What superiority? Per-
haps it consisted just in their limitations. It was obvi-
ous that neither of them had carried away a high opin-
ion of me. But what affected me most was the indiffer-
ence of the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself
at full speed and with a frightful final upward spring
upon my waistcoat, at least once at each of our meetings.
He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstand-
ing my correct and even conventional conduct in offer-
ing him a cake; it seemed to me symbolic of my final

FLORA 193

separation from the Fyne household. And I remem-
bered against him how on a certain day he had aban-
doned poor Flora de Barral — who was morbidly sensi-
tive.

"I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by
secret antagonism to the Fynes, I said to myself de-
liberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine fellow.
Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have been a
dangerous trifler or a downright scoundrel. He had
made a miserable, hopeless girl follow him clandestinely
to London. It is true that the girl had written since,
only Mrs. Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the
contents. They we$e unsatisfactory. They did not
positively announce imminent nuptials as far as I could
make it out from her rather mysterious hints. But
then her inexperience might have led her astray. There
was no fathoming the innocence of a woman like Mrs.
Fyne who, venturing as far as possible in theory, would
know nothing of the real aspect of things. It would
have been comic if she were making all this fuss for
nothing. But I rejected this suspicion for the honour
of human nature.

"I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple
and romantic. It was much more pleasant. Genius
is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he
was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of individ-
ualizing, of etherealizing the common-place; of making
touching, delicate, fascinating the most hopeless con-
ventions of the so-called, refined existence.

"What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's
dog-in-the-manger attitude. Sentimentally she needed
that brother of hers so little! What could it matter
to her one way or another — setting aside common
humanity which would suggest at least a neutral at-
titude? Unless indeed it was the blind working of the

194 CHANCE

law that in our world of chances the luckless must be
put in the wrong somehow.

"And musing thus on the general inclination of our
instincts towards injustice I met unexpectedly, at the
turn of the road, as it were, a shape of duplicity. It
might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part,
but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep,
not to preserve her brother, but to get rid of him
definitely. She did not hope to stop anything. She
had too much sense for that. Almost any one out of an
idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that.
She wanted the protest to be made, emphatically,
with Fyne's fullest concurrence in order to make all
intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action
would estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes! She
understood her brother and the girl too. Happy to-
gether, they would never forgive that outspoken hos-
tility — and should the marriage turn out badly. . . .
Well, it would be just the same. Neither of them would
be likely to bring their troubles to such a good prophet
of evil.

"Yes. That must have been her motive. The
inspiration of a possibly unconscious Machiavellism!
Either she was afraid of having a sister-in-law to look
after during the husband's long absences; or dreaded
the more or less distant eventuality of her brother being
persuaded to leave the sea, the friendly refuge of his
unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, bringing to her
very door this undesirable, this embarrassing connex-
ion. She wanted to be done with it — maybe simply
from the fatigue of continuous effort in good or evil
which, in the bulk of common mortals, accounts for
so many surprising inconsistencies of conduct.

"I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my
thoughts, amongst common mdrtals. She was too

FLORA 195

quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, as I
spied him next morning (out of the carriage window)
speeding along the platform, looked very much like a
common, flustered mortal who has made a very near
thing of catching his train: the staring wild eyes, the
tense and excited face, the distracted gait, all the com-
mon symptoms were there, rendered more impressive
by his native solemnity which flapped about him like a
disordered garment. Had he — I asked myself with
interest — resisted his wife to the very last minute and
then bolted up the road from the last conclusive argu-
ment, as though it had been a loaded gun suddenly
produced? I opened the carriage door, and a vigorous
porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the
rustic platform went gliding swiftly from under his feet.
He was very much out of breath, and I waited with some
curiosity for the moment he would recover his power
of speech. That moment came. He said 'Good
morning,' with a slight gasp, remained very still for
another minute and then pulled out of his pocket the
travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, di-
rected at me a glance of inquiry.
"'Yes. Certainly,' I said, very much disappointed,

CHAPTER SEVEN

ON THE PAVEMENT

"Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been al-
ready let into the secret, the fair-minded little man
recognized that I had some right to information if I
insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game.
We were yet some way from the end of our journey.

"'Oh, if you want to know,' was his somewhat im-
patient opening. And then he talked rather vohibly.
First of all his wife had not given him to read the letter
received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it
in his pocket), but had told him all about the contents.
It was not at all what it should have been even if the
girl had wished to affirm her right to disregard the feel-
ings of all the world. Her own had been trampled in
the dirt out of all shape. Extraordinary thing to say —
I would admit, for a young girl of her age. The whole
tone of that letter was wrong, quite wrong. It was cer-
tainly notthe product of a — say, of a well-balanced mind.

" 'If she were given some sort of footing in this world,'
I said, 'if only no bigger than the palm of my hand,
she would probably learn to keep a better balance.'

"Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said,
was not the sort of person to be addressed mockingly
on a serious subject. There was an unpleasant strain
of levity in that letter, extending even to the references
to Captain Anthony himself . Such a disposition was
enough, his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one
for the future, had all the circumstances of that pre-

196

ON THE PAVEMENT 197

posterous project been as satisfactory as in fact they
were not. Other parts of the letter seemed to have a
challenging tone — as if daring them (the Fynes) to ap-
prove her conduct. And at the same time implying
that she did not care, that it was for their own sakes
that she hoped they would 'go against the world — •
the horrid world which had crushed poor papa.'

"Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty
cool — considering. And there was another thing, too.
It seems that for the last six months (she had been as-
sisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in
Bwyswater — a mere pittance), Flora had insisted on
devoting all her spare time to the study of the trial.
She had been looking up files of old newspapers, and
working herself up into a state of indignation with what
she called the injustice and the hypocrisy of the prosecu-
tion. Her father, Fyne reminded me, had made some
palpable hits in his answers in Court, and she had
fastened on them triumphantly. She had reached
the conclusion of her father's innocence, and had been
brooding over it. Mrs. Fyne had pointed out to him
the danger of this.

"The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping
out directly it came to a standstill, seemed "glad to
cut short the conversation. We walked in silence a
little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don't
suppose that since the days of his childhood, when
surely he was taken to see the Tower, he had been
once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him sul-
lenly; and when I pointed out in the distance the
rounded front of the Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation
of two very broad, mean, shabby thoroughfares, rising
like a grey stucco tower above the lowly roofs of the
dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted dis-
approvingly.

198 CHANCE

"'I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have
been telling me,' I observed quietly as we approached
that unattractive building. 'No man will believe a
girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well bal-
anced, — you know.'

'"Oh! Accepted his suit,' muttered Fyne, who
seemed to have been very thoroughly convinced in-
deed. 'It may have been the other way about.' And
then he added: 'I am going through with it.'

"I said that this was very praiseworthy but that
a certain moderation of statement . . . He waved
his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed that
he was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as
possible. He barely gave himself time to shake hands
with me and made a rush at the narrow glass door with
the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to behind his
back with no more noise than the snap of a toothless jaw.

"The absurd temptation to remain and see what
would come of it got over my better judgment. I hung
about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy of
that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out
would consent to be communicative. I feared he would
be shocked at finding me there, would consider my con-
duct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt.
I walked off a few paces. Perhaps it would be possible
to read something on Fyne's face as he came out; and,
if necessary, I could always eclipse myself discreetly
through the door of one of the bars. The ground
floor of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with
plate-glass fronts, a display of brass rails, and divided
into many compartments each having its own entrance.

"But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the
love, the affairs of Captain Anthony were none of my
business. I was on the point of moving down the street
for good when my attention was attracted by a girl

ON THE PAVEMENT 199

approaching the hotel entrance from the west. She was 1
dressed very modestly in black. It was the white straw
hat of a good form and trimmed with a bunch of pale
roses which had caught my eye. The whole figure
seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. She
was making for the hotel, she was going in. And Fyne
was with Captain Anthony! To meet him would not
be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from the
awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked
up and our eyes happened to meet just as she was turn-
ing off the pavement into the hotel doorway. In-
stinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to
make her stop. I suppose she had some faint notion
that she had seen me before somewhere. She walked
slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my
faint smile.

" 'Excuse me,' I said directly she had approached me
near enough. 'Perhaps you would like to know that Mr,
Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at this moment.'

"She uttered a faint 'Ah! Mr. Fyne!' I could read in
her eyes that she had recognized me now. Her serious
expression extinguished the imbecile grin of which I
was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with
a slow inclination of the head while her luminous, mis-
trustful, maiden's glance seemed to whisper, 'What is
this one doing here?'

'"I came up to town with Fyne this morning,' I said
in a businesslike tone. 'I have to see a friend in East
India Dock. Fyne and I parted this moment at the
door here. . . .' The girl regarded me with darken-
ing eyes . . . 'Mrs. Fyne did not come with her
husband,' I went on, then hesitated before that white
face so still in the pearly shadow thrown down by the
hat-brim. 'But she sent him,' I murmured by way
of warning.

200 A CHANCE

Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I
imagine she was not much disconcerted by this develop-
ment. ' I live a long way from here, ' she whispered.

"I said perfunctorily, 'Do you?' And we remained
gazing at each other. The uniform paleness of her com-
plexion was not that of an anaemic girl. It had a trans-
parent vitality and at that particular moment the faint-
est possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of colour;
an equivalent, I suppose, in any other girl to blushing
like a peony, while she told me that Captain Anthony
had arranged to show her the ship that morning.

" It was easy to understand that she did not want to
meet Fyne. And when I mentioned in a discreet mur-
mur that he had come because of her letter she glanced
at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps
to a position where she could watch the entrance with-
out being seen. I followed her. At the junction of
the two thoroughfares she stopped in the thin traffic
of the broad pavement and turned to me with an air
of challenge. 'And so you know.'

"I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only
heard of it. She was a little impatient. 'I mean all
about me.'

"Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr.
and Mrs. Fyne — especially of Mrs. Fyne — was so great
that they would have shared it with anybody almost —
not belonging to their circle of friends. I happened
to be at hand — that was all.

'"You understand that I am not their friend. I am
only a holiday acquaintance.'

'"She was not very much upset?' queried Flora de
Barral, meaning, of course, Mrs. Fyne. And I ad-
mitted that she was less so than her husband — and
even less than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-
possessed person which nothing could startle out of her

ON THE PAVEMENT 201

extreme theoretical position. She did not seem startled
when Fyne and I proposed going to the quarry.

" ' You put that notion into their heads,' the girl said.

"I advanced that the notion was in their heads al-
ready. But it was much more vividly in my head since
I had seen her up there with my own eyes, tempting
Providence.

• "She was looking at me with extreme attention, and
murmured :

"'Is that what you called it to them? Tempt-
ing ... .'

"'No. I told them that you were making up your
mind and I came along just then. I told them that
you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . .'
She moved her head gently from right to left in nega-
tion. . . . 'No? Well, have it your own way.'

"I thought to myself: She has found another issue.
She wants to forget now. And no wonder. She wants
to persuade herself that she had never known such an
ugly and poignant minute in her life. 'After all,' I
conceded aloud, 'things are not always what they
seem.'

" Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of ten-
derness and anger under the black arch of fine eyebrows,
was very still. The mouth looked very red in the white
face peeping from under the veil, the little pointed
chin had in its form something aggressive. Slight and
even angular in her modest black dress she was an
appealing and — yes — she was a desirable little figure.

"Her lips moved very fast asking me:

"'And they believed you at once?'

"'Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word
to us was "Go!"'

"A white gleam between the red lips was so short
that I remained uncertain whether it was a smile or a

202 CHANCE

ferocious baring of little even teeth. The rest of the
face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical ex-
pression. She spoke rapidly.

"'No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some
time before you saw me. And I was not there to tempt
Providence, as you call it. I went up there for — for
what you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed
two fences. I did not mean to leave anything to Provi-
dence. There seem to be people for whom Providence
can do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear
me talk like that?'

"I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had
kept her back all that time, till I appeared on the scene
below, she went on, was neither fear nor any other
kind of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with
appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that con-
cerns one matters any longer. But something did keep
her back. I should have never guessed what it was.
She herself confessed that it seemed absurd to say.
It was the Fyne dog.

"Flora de Barral paused, looking at me with a pecu-
liar expression and then went on. You see, she im-
agined the dog had become extremely attached to her.
She took it into her head that he might fall over or jump
down after her. She tried to drive him away. She
spoke sternly to him. It only made him more frisky.
He barked and jumped about her skirt in his usual,
idiotic, high spirits. He scampered away in circles
between the pines charging upon her and leaping as
high as her waist. She commanded, 'Go away. Go
home.' She even picked up from the ground a bit of
a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his de-
light knew no bounds; his rushes became faster, his
yapping louder; he seemed to be having the time of
his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw

ON THE PAVEMENT 203

herself down lie would spring over after her as if it were
part of the game. She was vexed almost to tears. She
was touched too. And when he stood still at some dis-
tance as if suddenly rooted to the ground, wagging his
tail slowly and watching her intensely with his shining
eyes, another fear came to her. She imagined herself
gone and the creature sitting on the brink, its head
thrown up to the sky and howling for hours. This
thought was not to be borne. Then my shout reached
her ears.

"She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had
destroyed her poise — the suicide poise of her mind.
Every act of ours, the most criminal, the most mad
presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and will, like
a correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game.
And I had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper
form for the act. She was not very much annoyed.
Next day would do. She would have to slip away
without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought
of the necessity almost tenderly. She came down the
path carrying her despair with lucid calmness. But,
when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had
an impulse to turn round, go up again and be done
with it. Not even that animal cared for her — in the
end.

" 'I really did think that he was attached to me. What
did he want to pretend for, like this? I thought noth-
ing could hurt me any more. Oh yes. I would have
gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And
then you were there. I didn't know what you would
do. You might have tried to follow me and I don't
think I could run — not up hill — not then.'

"She had raised her white face a little, and it was
queer to hear her say these things. At that time of the
morning there are co mparative ly few people out in

204 CHANCE

that part of the town. The broad interminable per-
spective of the East India Dock Road, the great per-
spective of drab brick walls, of grey pavement, of
muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts
and vans lost itself in the distance, imposing and shabby
in its spacious meanness of aspect, in its immeasurable
poverty of forms, of colouring, of life — under a harsh,
unconcerned sky dried by the wind to a clear blue.
It had been raining during the night. The sunshine
itself seemed poor. From time to time a few bits of
paper, a little dust and straw whirled past us on the
broad, flat promontory of the pavement before the
rounded front of the hotel.

"Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said:
" 'And next day you thought better of it.'
"Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar
expression of informed innocence; and again her white
cheeks took on the faintest tinge of pink — the merest
shadow of a blush.

"'Next day,' she uttered distinctly, 'I didn't think.
I remembered. That was enough. I remembered
what I should never have forgotten. Never. And
Captain Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening.'
"'Ah yes. Captain Anthony,' I murmured. And
she repeated also in a murmur, 'Yes! Captain An-
thony.' The faint flush of warm life left her face. I
subdued my voice still more and not looking at her:
'You found him sympathetic?' I ventured.

"Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air
of calculated discretion. At least so it seemed to me.
And yet no one could say that I was mimical to that
girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, in
this world the friendless, like the poor, are always a
little suspect, as if honesty and delicacy were only pos-
sible to the privileged few,

ON THE PAVEMENT 205

"'Why do you ask?' she said after a time, raising her
eyes suddenly to mine in an effect of candour which
on the same principle (of the disinherited not being to
be trusted) might have been judged equivocal.

"'If you mean what right I have . . .' She moved
slightly a hand in a worn brown glove as much as to
say she could not question any one's right against such
an outcast as herself.

"I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only
noted the total absence of humility . . . . 'No right
at all,' I continued, 'but just interest. Mrs. Fyne — ■
it's too difficult to explain how it came about — has
talked to me of you — well — extensively.'

"No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora
said brusquely with an unexpected hoarseness of tone
•This very dress she was wearing had been given hei"
by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could
not have been a recent gift. Close-fitting and black,
with heliotrope silk facings under a figured net, it
looked far from new, just on this side of shabbiness;
in fact, it accentuated the slightness of her figure, it
went well in its suggestion of half mourning with the
white face in which the unsmiling red lips alone seemed
warm with the rich blood of life and passion.

"Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscion-
able time. Was he arguing, preaching, remonstrating?
Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a taste
for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an in-
tense dislike for the job, beating about the bush and
only puzzling Captain Anthony, the providential man,
who, if he expected the girl to appear at any moment,
must have been on tenterhooks all the time, and beside
himself with impatience to see the back of his brother-
in-law? How was it that he had not got rid of Fyne long
before in any case? I don't mean by actually throwing

206 CHANCE

him out of the window, but in some other resolute
manner.

"Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That An-
thony was an impressionable man I could not doubt.
The presence of the girl there on the pavement before
me proved this up to the hilt — and, well, yes, touchingly
enough.

"It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro
our glances met. There was something comic in the
whole situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting
together on the broad pavement at a corner public-
house for the issue of Fyne's ridiculous mission. But
the comic when it is human becomes quickly painful.
Yes, .she was infinitely anxious. And I was asking
myself whether this poignant tension of her suspense
depended — to put it plainly — on hunger or love.

"The answer would have been of some interest to
Captain Anthony. For my part, in the presence of a
young girl I always become convinced that the dreams
of sentiment — like the consoling mysteries of Faith-
are invincible; that it is never, never reason which gov-
erns men and women.

"Yet what sentiment could there have been on her
part? I remembered her tone only a moment since
when she said : ' That evening Captain Anthony arrived
at the cottage.' And considering, too, what the arrival
of Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I won-
dered at the calmness with which she could mention
that fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the evening.
I knew that late train. He probably walked from the
station. The evening would be well advanced. I
could almost see a dark, indistinct figure opening the
wicket gate of the garden. Where was she? Did she
see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did
she hear without the slightest premonition his chance

ON THE PAVEMENT 207

and fateful footsteps on the flagged path leading to the
cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more
cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he
must have appeared too strange, too remote, too un-
known to impress himself on her thought as a living
force — such a force as a man can bring to bear on a
woman's destiny.

"She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed
suit and then our eyes met once more, this time inten-
tionally. A tentative, uncertain intimacy was spring-
ing up between us two. She said simply: 'You are
waiting for Mr. Fyne to come out; are you?'

"I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne
come out. That was all. I had nothing to say to him.

"'I have said yesterday all I had to say to him,'
I added meaningly. 'I have said it to them both, in
fact. I have also heard all they had to say.'

"'About me?' she murmured.

"'Yes. The conversation was about you.'

"'I wonder if they told you everything.'

"If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder
too. But I did not tell her that. I only smiled. The
material point was that Captain Anthony should be
told everything. But as to that I was very certain
that the good sister would see to it. Was there any-
thing more to disclose — some other misery, some other
deception of which that girl had been a victim? It
seemed hardly probable. It was not even easy to
imagine. What struck me most was her — I suppose I
must call it — composure. One could not tell whether
she understood what she had done. One wondered.
She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did
not know whether to admire her for it or dismiss her
from my thoughts as a passive butt of ferocious mis-
fortune.

208 CHANCE

"Looking back at the occasion when we first got on
speaking terms on the road by the quarry, I had to ad-
mit that she presented some points of a problematic
appearance. I don't know why I imagined Captain
Anthony as the sort of man who would not be likely
to take the initiative; not perhaps from indifference
but from that peculiar timidity before women which
often enough is found in conjunction with chivalrous
instincts, with a great need for affection and great stabil-
ity of feelings. Such men are easily moved. At the
least encouragement they go forward with the eagerness,
with the recklessness of starvation. This accounted
for the suddenness of the affair. No ! With all her
inexperience this girl could not have found any great
difficulty in her conquering enterprise. She must have
begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost un-
moved, almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar,
without a right to anything but compassion, for a prom-
ised dole.

"Every moment people were passing close by us
singly, in twos and threes; the inhabitants of that end
of the town where life goes on unadorned by grace or
splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments,
with sallow faces, haggard, anxious or weary, or simply
without expression, in an unsmiling sombre stream not
made up of lives but of mere unconsidered existences
whose joys, struggles, thoughts, sorrows and their
very hopes were miserable, glamourless, and of no ac-
count in the world. And when one thought of their
reality to themselves one's heart became oppressed.
But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared
to me for the moment so pathetic in unconscious pa-
tience as the girl standing before me; none more difficult
to understand. It is perhaps because I was thinking
of things which I could not ask her about.

ON THE PAVEMENT 209

"In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but
we two, strangers as we really were to each other, had
dealt with the most intimate and final of subjects, the
subject of death. It had created a sort of bond be-
tween us. It made our silence weighty and uneasy. I
ought to have left her there and then; but, as I think
I've told you before, the fact of having shouted her
away from the edge of a precipice seemed somehow to
have engaged my responsibility as to this other leap.
And so we had still an intimate subject between us to
lend more weight and more uneasiness to our silence.
The subject of marriage. I used the word not so much
in reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt
of this, Captain Anthony being a decent fellow) or in
view of the social institution in general, as to which
I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation
The first two views are not particularly interesting.
The ceremony, I suppose, is adequate; the institution,
I dare say, is useful or it would not have endured. But
the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious
thing in its origins, character and consequences.
Unfortunately you can't buttonhole familiarly a young
girl as you would a young fellow. I don't think that
even another woman could really do it. She would
not be trusted. There is not between women that
fund of at least conditional loyalty which men may de-
pend on in their dealings with each other. I believe
that any woman would rather trust a man. The diffi-
culty in such a delicate case was how to get on
terms.

"So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that
wide roadway thronged with heavy carts. Great
vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced sway-
ing like mountains. It was as if the whole world ex-
isted only for selling and buying and those who had

210 CHANCE

toothing to do with the movement of merchandise were
of no account.

'"You must be tired, ' I said. One had to say some-
thing if only to assert oneself against that wearisome,
passionless and crushing uproar. She raised her eyes
fof a . moment. No, she was not. Not very. She
had not walked all the way. She came by train as far
as Whitechapel Station and had only walked from
there.

"She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of
love or necessity who could tell? And that precisely
was what I should have liked to get at. This was not
however a question to be asked point-blank, and I
could not think of any effective circumlocution. It
occurred to me too that she might conceivably know
nothing of it herself — I mean by reflection. That
young woman had been obviously considering death.
She had gone the length of forming some conception
of it. But as to its companion fatality — love, she, I
was certain, had never reflected upon its meaning.

"With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know,
and this girl standing before me in the street I felt that
it was an exceptional case. He had broken away from
his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One
aspect of conventions which people who declaim against
them lose sight of is that conventions make both joy
and suffering easier to bear in a becoming manner.
But those two were outside all conventions. They
would be as untrammelled in a sense as the first man
and the first woman. The trouble was that I could not
imagine anything about Flora de Barral and the brother
of Mrs. Pyne. Or if you like, I could imagine anything
which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness
and chaos are first cousins. I should have liked to ask
the girl for a word which would give my imagination

ON THE PAVEMENT 211

its line. But iiow was one to venture so far? I can
be rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent.
I would have liked to ask her for instance: 'Do you
know what you have done with yourself?' A question
like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say
something. A question it must be. And the question
I asked was: 'So he's going to show you the ship?'

"She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the
opportunity to speak herself.

'"Yes. He said he would: — this morning. Did you
say you did not know Captain Anthony?'

"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his
sister?"

"She looked startled and murmured 'Sister!' in a
puzzled tone which astonished me. 'Oh! Mrs. Fyne,'
she exclaimed, recollecting herself, and avoiding my
eyes while I looked at her curiously.

"What an extraordinary detachment!- And all the
time the stream of shabby people was hastening by us,
with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary footsteps
on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime
of surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed
of an inferior quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarn-
ished and dusty. I had to raise my voice in the dull
vibrating noise of the roadway.

" ' You don't mean to say you have forgotten the con-
nection?'

"She cried readily enough: 'I wasn't thinking.' And
then, while I wondered what could have been the images
occupying her brain at this time, she asked me: 'You
didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne — did you?'

'"No. I didn't,' I shouted. Just then the racket was
distracting, a pair-horse trolly lightly loaded with loose
rods of iron passing slowly very near us. 'I wasn't
trusted so far.' And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints

£12 CHANCE

that the girl was unbalanced, I added: '"Was it an un-
reserved confession you wrote?'

"She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I
thought that there's nothing like a confession to make
one look mad; and that of all confessions a" written one is
the most detrimental all round. Never confess ! Never,
never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret
always. Sometimes it may ruin a man ; not because it is
a joke, but because it is untimely. And a confession of
whatever sort is always untimely. The one thing which
makes it supportable for a while is curiosity. You smile?
Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent to the right-
about at the second sentence. How many sympathetic
souls can you reckon on in the world? One in ten, one
in a hundred — in a thousand — in ten thousand? Ah!
What a sell these confessions are! What a horrible sell!
You seek sympathy, and all you get is the most evanes-
cent sense of relief — if you get that much. For a con-
fession, whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of
. the hearer's character. Often depths that he himself
is but dimly aware of. And so the righteous triumph
secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are dis-
gusted, the weak either upset or irritated with you
according to the measure of their sincerity with them-
selves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for
either mad or impudent. ..."

I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimis-
tic, so earnestly cynical before. I cut his declamation
short by asking what answer Flora de Barral had given
to his question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off her
confidences at Mrs. Fyne — eight pages of close writing
—that sort of thing?"

Marlow shook his head.

"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence as a
jrind of answer, and remarked that it would have beea i

ON THE PAVEMENT 213

better if she had simply announced the fact to Mrs r
Fyne at the cottage. 'Why didn't you do it?' I asked
point-blank.

"She said: 'I am not a very plucky girl.' She looked
up at me and added meaningly: 'And you know it. And
you know why.'

"I must remark that she seemed to have become very
subdued since our first meeting at the quarry. Almost
a different person from the defiant, angry and despair-
ing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances.

"'I thought it was very sensible of you to get away
from that sheer drop,' I said.

"She looked up with something of that old expres-
sion.

" ' That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that
you saved my life. Nothing of the kind. I was con-
cerned for that vile little beast of a dog. No ! It \y<*s
the idea of — of doing away with myself which was
cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a
very plucky girl.'

" 'Oh ! ' I retorted airily. ' That little dog. He isn't
really a bad little dog.' But she lowered her eyelids and
went on:

" ' I was so miserable that I could think only of myself.
This was mean. It was cruel too. And besides I had not
given it up — not then.' "

Marlow changed his tone.

"I don't know much of the psychology of self-
destruction. It's a sort of subject one has few oppor-
tunities to study closely. I knew a man once who came
to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar
confessed to me moodily that he was trying to discover
some graceful way of retiring out of existence. I didn't
studv his case, but I had a glimpse of him the other day

214 CHANCE

at a cricket match, with some women, having a good
time. That seems a fairly reasonable attitude. Con-
sidered as a sin, it is a case for repentance before the
throne of a merciful God. But I imagine that Flora
de Barral's religion under the care of the distinguished
governess could have been nothing but outward for-
mality. Remorse in the sense of gnawing shame and
unavailing regret is only understandable to me when
some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature.

But why she, that girl who existed on sufferance, so
to speak — why she should writhe inwardly with remorse
because she had once thought of getting rid of a life
which was nothing in every respect but a curse — that
I could not understand. I thought it was very likely
some obscure influence of common forms of speech,
some traditional or inherited feeling — a vague notion
that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists
and preachers which remain in the air and help to form
all the authorized moral conventions. Yes, I was sur-
prised at her remorse. But lowering her glance unex-
pectedly till her dark eyelashes seemed to rest against
her white cheeks she presented a' perfectly demure as-
pect. It was so attractive that I could not help a faint
smile. That Flora de Barral should ever, in any as-
pect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very
last thing I should have believed. She went on after a
slight hesitation:

"One day I started for there, for that place.'

"Look at the influence of a mere play of physiog-
nomy! If you remember what we were talking about
you will hardly believe that I caught myself grinning
down at that demure little girl. I must say too that
I felt more friendly to her at the moment than ever
before.

"'Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a de-

ON THE PAVEMENT 215

termined young person. Well, what happened that
time?'

"An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing;
a slight droop of her head perhaps — a mere nothing —
made her look more demure than ever.

"I had left the cottage,' she began a little hurriedly.
'I was walking along the road — you know, the road. I
had made up my mind I was not coming back this
time.'

"I won't deny that these words spoken from under
the brim of her hat (oh yes, certainly, her head was
down — she had put it down) gave me a thrill; for in-
deed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could
never have been a make-believe despair.

"'Yes,' I whispered. 'You were going along the
road.'

'"When . . . ' Again she hesitated with an effect
of innocent shyness worlds asunder from tragic issues;
then glided on . . . 'When suddenly Captain An-
thony came through a gate out of a field.'

"I coughed down the beginning of a most improper
fit of laughter, and felt ashamed of myself. Her eyes
raised for a moment seemed full of innocent suffering
and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated
pupils within the rings of sombre blue. It was — how
shall I say it? — a night effect when you seem to see
vague shapes and don't know what reality you may
come upon at any time. Then she lowered her eyelids
again, shutting all mysteriousness out of the situation
except for the sobering memory of that glance, night-
like in the sunshine, expressively still in the brutal
unrest of the street.

"'So Captain Anthony joined you — did he?'

" 'He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road.
He crossed to my side and went on with me. He had

216 CHANCE

his pipe in his hand. He said: "Are you going far
this morning?"'

"These words (I was watching her white face as she
spoke) gave me a slight shudder. She remained de-
mure, almost prim. And I remarked:

'"You had been talking together before, of course.'

"'Not more than twenty words altogether since he
arrived,' she declared without emphasis. 'That day
he had said, "Good morning" to me when we met at
breakfast two hours before. And I said good morning
to him. I did not see him afterwards till he came out
on the road.'

"I thought to myself that this was not accidental.
He had been observing her. I felt certain also that
he had not been asking any questions of Mrs. Fyne.

"'I wouldn't look at him,' said Flora de Barral. 'I
had done with looking at people. He said to me: "My
sister does not put herself out much for us. We had
better keep each other company. I have read every
book there is in that cottage." I walked on. He did
not leave me. I thought he ought to. But he didn't.
He didn't seem to notice that I would not talk to him.'

"She was now perfectly still. The wretched little
parasol hung down against her dress from her joined
hands. I was rigid with attention. It isn't every day
that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips.
The ugly street-noises swelling up for a moment covered
the next few words she said. It was vexing. The
next word I heard was 'worried.'

" 'It worried you to have him there, walking by your
side?'

'"Yes. Just that,' she went on with downcast eyes.
There was something prettily comical in her attitude
and her tone, while I pictured to myself a poor white-
taced girl walking to her death with aD unconscious

ON THE PAVEMENT 217

man striding by her side. Unconscious? I don '.t know.
First of all, I felt certain that this was no chance meet-
ing. Something had happened before. Was he a man
for a coup-de-foudre, the lightning stroke of love? I
don't think so. That sort of susceptibility is luckily
rare. A world of inflammable lovers of the Romeo
and Juliet type would very soon end in barbarism and
misery. But it is a fact that in every man (not in every
woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is called out in
all his potentialities often by the most insignificant
little things — as long as they come at the psychological
moment: the glimpse of a face at an unusual angle, an
evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked
at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged
with astonishing significance. These are great mys-
teries, of course. Magic signs.

"I don't know in what the sign consisted in this
case. It might have been her pallor (it wasn't pasty
nor yet papery) that white face with eyes like blue
gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights,
in certain poises of head it suggested tragic sorrow.
Or it might have been her wavy hair. Or even just
that pointed chin stuck out a little, resentful and not
particularly distinguished, doing away with the mys-
terious aloofness of her fragile presence. But any way
at a given moment Anthony must have suddenly seen
the girl. And then, that something had happened to
him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought coming
into his head that this was 'a possible woman.'

"Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character
makes me think it was the chin's doing; that 'common
mortal' touch which stands in such good stead to some
women. Because men, I mean really masculine men,
those whose generations have evolved an ideal woman,
are often very timid. Who wouldn't be before the ideal?

218 CHANCE

It's your sentimental trifler, who has just missed being
nothing at all, who is enterprising, simply because it is
easy to appear enterprising when one does not mean to
put one's belief to the test.

"Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Cap-
tain Anthony stuck to Flora de Barral in a manner
which in a timid man might have been called heroic if it
had not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy,
simplicity, or just inspiration, he kept up his talk,
rather deliberate, with very few pauses. Then sud-
denly as if recollecting himself:

" ' It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me
for giving you my company unasked. But why don't
you say something?'

"I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to
this query.

"'I made no answer,' she said in that even, unemo-
tional low voice which seemed to be her voice for
delicate confidences. 'I walked on. He did not seem
to mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the
road winds up hill, past the place where you were sitting
by the roadside that day. I began to wonder what I
should do. After we reached the top Captain Anthony
said that he had not been for a walk with a lady for
years and years — almost since he was a boy. We had
then come to where I ought to have turned off and
struck across a field. I thought of making a run of it.
But he would have caught me up. I knew he would;
and, of course, he would not have allowed me. I
couldn't give him the slip.'

Why didn't you ask him to leave you? ' I inquired
curiously.

"He would not have taken any notice,' she went on
steadily. 'And what could I have done then? I could
not have started quarrelling with him — could I? I

ON THE PAVEMENT 219

hadn't enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired
suddenly. I just stumbled on straight along the road.
Captain Anthony told me that the family — some rela-
tions of his mother — he used to know in Liverpool was
broken up now, and he had never made any friends
since. All gone their different ways. All the girls
married. Nice girls they were and very friendly to
him when he was but little more than a boy. He re-
peated: "Very nice,- cheery, clever girls." I sat down
on a bank against a hedge and began to cry.'

'"You must have astonished him not a little,' I ob-
served.

"Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking
down at her. He did not offer to approach her, neither
did he make any other movement or gesture. Flora
de Barral told me all this. She could see him through
her tears, blurred to a mere shadow on the white road,
and then again becoming more distinct, but always
absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a strange
phenomenon which demanded the closest possible at-
tention. ,

" Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman
cry; not in that way, at least. He was impressed and
interested by the mysteriousness of the effect. She was
very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to
stop herself crying. In fact, she was not capable of any
effort. Suddenly he advanced two steps, stooped,
caught hold of her hands lying on her lap and pulled
her up to her feet; she found herself standing close to
him almost before she realized what he had done. Some
people were coming briskly along the road and Captain
Anthony muttered: 'You don't want to be stared at.
What about that stile over there? Can we go back
across the fields?'

"She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he

220 CHANCE

had omitted to let them go), marched away from him
and got over the stile. It was a big field sprinkled pro-
fusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it
diagonally. After she had gone more than half way
she turned her head for the first time. Keeping five
feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was following her
with an air of extreme interest. Interest or eagerness.
At any rate she caught an expression on his face which
frightened her. But not enough, to make her run.
And indeed, it would have had to be something incredi-
bly awful to scare into a run a girl who had come to
the end of her courage to live.

"As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder
Captain Anthony came up boldly, and now that he was
by her side, she felt his nearness intimately, like a touch.
She tried to disregard this sensation. But she was not
angry with him now. It wasn't worth while. She was
thankful that he had the sense not to ask questions as
to this crying. Of course he didn't ask because he
didn't care. No one in the world cared for her, neither
those who pretended nor yet those who did not pretend.
She preferred the latter.

" Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another
field; when they got through he kept walking abreast,
elbow to elbow almost. His voice growled pleasantly
in her very ear. Staying in this dull place was enough
to give any one the blues. His sister scribbled all day.
It was positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as
rude, selfish monkeys, without either feelings or man-
ners. And he went on to talk about his ship being laid
up for a month and dismantled for repairs. The worst
was that on arriving in London he found he couldn't
get the rooms he was used to, where they made him as
comfortable as such a confirmed sea-dog as himself
- could be anywhere on shore.

ON THE PAVEMENT 221

"In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to
keep in check the mysterious, the profound attraction
he felt already for that delicate being of flesh and blood,
with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and eyes scalded
with hot tears, he went on speaking of himself as a con-
firmed enemy of life on shore — a perfect terror to a
simple man, what with the fads and proprieties and the
ceremonies and affectations. He hated all that. He
wasn't fit for it. There was no rest and peace and secur-
ity but on the sea.

"This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a
hermit withdrawn from a wicked world. It was amus-
ingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But it
must have appealed straight to that bruised and bat-
tered young soul. Still shrinking from his nearness
she had ended by listening to him with avidity. His
deep murmuring voice soothed her. And she thought
suddenly that there was peace and rest in the grave too.

"She heard him say: 'Look at my sister. She isn't a
bad woman by any means. She asks me here because
it's right and proper, I suppose, but she has no use for
me. There you have your shore people. I quite
understand anybody crying. I would have been gone
already, only, truth to say, I haven't any friends to go
to.' He added brusquely: 'And you?'

"She made a slight negative sign. He must have
been observing her, putting two and two together. After
a pause he said simply: 'When I first came here I
thought you were governess to these girls. My sister
didn't say a word about you to me.'

"Then Flora spoke for the first time.

'"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend.'

"'So she is mine,' he said without the slightest irony
or bitterness, but added with conviction: 'That shows
you what life ashore is. Much better be out of it.'

222 CHANCE

"As they were approaching the cottage he was heard
again as though a long silent -walk had not intervened:
'But anyhow I shan't ask her anything about you.'

"He stopped short and she went on alone. His last
words had impressed her. Everything he had said
seemed somehow to have a special meaning under its
obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the
door of the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her.

"That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl
was, one may say, washing about with slack limbs in
the ugly surf of life with no opportunity to strike out
for herself, when suddenly she had been made to feel
that there was somebody beside her in the bitter water.
A most considerable moral event for her; whether she
was aware of it or not. They met again at the one
o'clock dinner. I am inclined to think that, being a
healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast walking
and what I may call relief -crying (there are many kinds
of crying) making one hungry, she made a good meal.
It was Captain Anthony who had no appetite. His
sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner,
and the eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly:
'You have been taking too much exercise this morning,
Uncle Roderick.' The mild Uncle Roderick turned
upon her with a 'What do you know about it, young
lady?' so charged with suppressed savagery that the
whole round table gave one gasp and went dumb for
the rest of the meal. He took no notice whatever of
Flora de Barral. I don't think it was from prudence
or any calculated motive. I believe he was so full of her
aspects that he did not want to look in her direction
when there were other people to hamper his imagination.

"You understand I am piecing here bits of discon-
nected statements. Next day Flora saw him leaning
over the field-gate. When she told me this, I didn't

ON THE PAVEMENT <m

of course ask her how it was she was there. Probably
she could not have told me how it was she was there.
The difficulty here is to keep steadily in view the then
conditions of her existence, a combination of dreariness
and horror.

"That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic
sailor was leaning over the gate moodily. When he
saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a lost
thing along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and
called out 'Good morning, Miss Smith' in a tone of
amazing happiness. She, with one foot in life and the
other in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and
unstable, and very much at the mercy of sudden im-
pulses. She swerved, came distractedly right up to the
gate and looking straight into his eyes: 'I am not Miss
Smith. That's not my name. Don't call me by it.'

" She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed
nothing; he only unlatched the gate in silence, grasped
her arm and drew her in. Then closing it with a
kick —

"'Not your name? That's all one to me. Your
name's the least thing about you I care for.' He was
leading her firmly away from the gate though she re-
sisted slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes
which frightened her. 'You are not a 'princess in dis-
guise,' he said with an unexpected laugh she found
blood-curdling. 'And that's all I care for. You
had better understand that I am not blind and not a
fool. And then it's plain for even a fool to see that
things have been going hard with you. You are on
a lee shore and eating your heart out with worry.'

"What seemed most awful to her was the elated light
in his eyes, the rapacious smile that would come and go
on his lips as if he'wert gloating over her misery. But
her misery w*~s h'S opDortunity and he rejoiced while

224 CHANCE

the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He
pointed out to her that she knew who he was. He was
Mrs. Fyne's brother. And, well, if his sister was the best
friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it was about
time somebody came along to look after her a little.

"Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but
he tightened his grasp on her arm each time and even
shook it a little without ceasing to speak. The near-
ness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving
to look her through. It was obvious the world had
been using her ill. And even as he spoke with indigna-
tion the very marks and stamp of this ill-usage of which
he was so certain seemed to add to the inexplicable
attraction he felt for her person. It was not pity alone,
I take it. It was something more spontaneous, perverse
and exciting. It gave him the feeling that if only he
could get hold of her, no woman would belong to him
so completely as this woman.

'"Whatever your troubles,' he said, 'I am the man to
take you away from them; that is, if you are not afraid.
You told me you had no friends. Neither have I. No-
body ever cared for me as far as I can remember. Per-
haps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who
would you be parting from? No one. You have no
one belonging to you.'

"At this point she broke away from him and ran. He
did not pursue her. The tall hedges tossing in the
wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving over the sky
and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green
and white and blue as if the world were breaking up
silently in a whirl, and her foot at the next step were
bound to find the void. She reached the gate all right,
got out, and, once on the road, discovered that she had
not the courage to look back. The rest of that day
she spent with the Fyne girls who gave her to under-

ON THE PAVEMENT 225

stand that she was a slow and unprofitable person.
Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony (the
son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the
little garden in front of the cottage. They were alone
for the moment. The wind had dropped. In the
calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls
strolling aimlessly on the road could be heard. He
said to her severely:

"'You have understood?'

She looked at him in silence.

"'That I love you,' he finished.

She shook her head the least bit.

" ' Don't you believe me? ' he asked in a low, infuriated
voice.

"'Nobody would love me,' she answered in a very
quiet tone. 'Nobody could.'

"He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure
as he well might have been. He doubted his ears. He
was outraged.

'"Eh? What? Couldn't love you? What do you
know about it? It's my affair, isn't it? You dare say
that to a man who has just told you ! You must be mad ! '

"'Very nearly,' she said with the accent of pent-up
sincerity, and even relieved because she was able to
say something which she felt was true. For the last
few days she had felt herself several times near that
madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of appre-
hension.

"The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were
coming nearer, sounding affected in the peace of the
passion-laden earth. He began storming at her hastily.

"'Nonsense! Nobody could . . . Indeed! Pah!
You'll have to be shown that somebody can. I can.
Nobody . . .' He made a contemptuous hissing
noise. 'More likely ycra can't. They have done some-

226 CHANCE

thing to you. Something's crushed your pluck. You
can't face a man — that's what it is. What made you
like this? Where do you come from? You have been
put upon. The scoundrels — whoever they are, men
or women, seem to have robbed you of your very name.
You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are you,
then?'

"She did not answer. He muttered, 'Not that I
care,' and fell silent, because the fatuous self-confident
chatter of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very gate.
But they were not going to bed yet. They passed on.
He waited a little in silence and immobility, then
stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He growled
at her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was
threatening her and calling her names. She was no
stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a
particular kind of ferocity in this which was new to her.
She began to tremble. The especially terr^ying thing
t was that she could not make out the nature of these
awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was
not the shrinking anguish of her other experiences of
angry scenes. She made a mighty effort, though her
knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice
demanded that he should let her go indoors. 'Don't
stop me. It's no use. It's no use,' she repeated faintly,
feeling an invincible obstinacy rising within her, yet
without anger against that raging man.

"He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising
his voice, perfectly audible.

"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell
me that — you white-faced wisp, you wreath of mist,
you little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You
dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all
eyes. What makes your cheeks always so white as if
you had seen something . . , Don't speak. I love

ON THE PAVEMENT 227

it . . . No use! And you really think that I can
now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the
world somewhere, leaving you behind! Why! You
would vanish . . . what little there is of you. Some
rough wind will blow you away altogether. You have
no holding ground on earth. Well, then, trust yourself
to me — to the sea — which is deep like your eyes.'

"She said: 'Impossible.' He kept quiet for a while,
then asked in a totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy
curiosity :

"'You can't stand me then? Is that it?'

"'No,' she said, more steady herself. 'I am not
thinking of you at all.'

" The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over
the sombre fields calling to each other, thin and clear.
He muttered : 'You could try to. Unless you are think-
ing of somebody else.'

" ' Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone
who has nobody to think of him but me.'

" His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and sud-
denly leaned sideways against the wooden support of
the porch. And as she stood still, surprised by this
staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite
strange to her:

"'Go in then. Go out of my sight — I thought you
said nobody could love you.'

"She was passing him when suddenly he struck her
as so forlorn that she was inspired to say: 'No one has
ever loved me — not in that way — if that's what you
mean. Nobody would.'

"He detached himself brusquely from the post, and
she did not shrink; but Mrs. Fyne and the girls were al-
ready at the gate.

"All he understood was that everything was not over
yet, There was no time to lose; Mrs, Fyne and the

228, CHANCE

girls had come in at the gate. He whispered 'Wait'
with such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony,
the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a mo-
ment, long enough to hear him say that he could not be
left like this to puzzle over her nonsense all night. She
was to slip down again into the garden later on, ae
soon as she could do so without being heard. He would
be there waiting for her till — till daylight. She didn't
think he could go to sleep, did she? And she had better
come, or He broke off on an unfinished threat.

"She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as
Mrs. Fyne came up to the porch. Nervous, holding
her breath in the darkness of the living-room, she heard
her best friend say: 'You ought to have joined us,
Roderick.' And then: 'Have you seen Miss Smith
anywhere?'

"Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out
into betraying imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and
cause a painful and humiliating explanation. She
imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her
great surprise, Anthony's voice sounded very much
as usual, with perhaps a slight tinge of grimness: 'Miss
Smith! No. I've seen no Miss Smith.'

"Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied — and not much con-
cerned really.

"Flora^ relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs,
and shutting her door quietly, dropped into a chair.
She was used to reproaches, abuse, to all sorts of wicked
ill usage — short of actual beating on her body*. Other-
wise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and tram-
pled down her youth without mercy — and mainly, it
appeared, because she was the financier de Barral's
daughter and also condemned to a degrading sort of
poverty through the action of treacherous men who had
turned upon her father in his hour of need. And she

ON THE PAVEMENT 229

thought with the tenderest possible affection of that
upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft-
voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She
seemed to feel his hand closed round hers. On his
flying visits to Brighton he would always walk hand in
hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the
band was playing; and there was the sea — the blue
gaiety of the sea. They were quietly happy together.
. . . It was all over!

"An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart,
and she nearly cried aloud. That dread of what was
before her which had been eating up her courage slowly
in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access
of panic, that sort of headlong panic which had already
driven her out twice to the top of the cliff-like quarry.
She jumped jip, saying to herself: 'Why not now? At
once! Yes. I'll do it now — in the dark!' The very
horror of it seemed to give her additional resolution.

"She came down the staircase quietly, and only on
the point of opening the door and because of the dis-
covery that it was unfastened, she remembered Captain
Anthony's threat to stay in the garden all night. She
hesitated. She did not understand the mood of that
man clearly. He was violent. But she had gone be-
yond the point where things matter. What would he
think of her coming down to him — as he would naturally
suppose? And even that didn't matter. He could
not despise her more than she despised herself. She
must have been light-headed because the thought came
into her mind that should he get into ungovernable
fury from disappointment, and perchance strangle her,
it would be as good a way to be done with it as any.

"You had that thought!' I exclaimed in wonder.

"With downcast eyes and speaking with a most pains-
taking precision (her very hpsj her red lips, seemed to

230 CHANGE

move Just enough to be heard and no more), she said
that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes
one shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire knowl-
edge. For this was a thought, wild enough, I admit,
but which could only have come from the depths of
that sort of experience which she had not had, and went
far beyond a young girl's possible conception of the
strongest and most veiled of human emotions.

"'He was there, of course?' I said.

"'Yes, he was there.' She saw him on the path
directly she stepped outside the porch. He was very
still. It was as though he had been standing there with
his face to the door for hours.

"Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and
tenderness, he must have been ready for any extrava-
gance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence each
night brought to that nook of the country, I could
imagine them having the feeling of being the only two
people on the wide earth. A row of six or seven lofty
elms just across the road opposite the cottage made the
night more obscure in that little garden. If these two
sould just make out each other that was all.

'"Well! And were you very much terrified?' I
asked.

" She made me wait a little before she said, raising her
eyes: 'He was gentleness itself.'

"I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers,
sallow and dirty, who had come to range themselves in
a row within ten feet of us against the front of the
public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral's back
with unseeing, mournful fixity.

"Let's move this way a little,' I proposed.

" She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too
far to take us out of sight of the hotel door, but very
nearly. I could just keep my eyes on it. After all,

ON THE PAVEMENT 231

i
I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were
to disentagle the words we actually exchanged from my
comments you would see that they were not so very
many, including everything she had so unexpectedly
told me of her story. No, not so very many. And
now it seemed as though there would be no more. No !
I could expect no more. The confidence was wonderful
enough in its nature as far as it went, and perhaps not
to have been expected from any other girl under the sun.
And I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy
was too gruesome. It was as if listening to her I had
taken advantage of having seen her poor, bewildered,
scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too;
or, to render myself justice without false modesty — I
was anxious; anxious to know a little more.

"I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made
my attempt with a light-hearted remark.

"'And so you gave up that walk you proposed to
take?'

"'Yes, I gave up the walk,' she said slowly before
raising her downcast eyes. When she did so it was with
an extraordinary effect. It was like catching sight of a
piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And for
a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom
the sea and sky of his solitary life had appeared sud-
denly incomplete without that glance which seemed to
belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son
of a poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while
the girl went on, her demure appearance and precise
tone changed to a very earnest expression. Woman
is various indeed.

"'But I want you to understand, Mr. . . .' she had
actually to think of my name . . . 'Mr. Marlow,
that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I haven't been —
that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony

232 CHANCE

behave to me as he has behaved. I haven't. I
haven't. It isn't my doing. It isn't my fault — if she
likes to put it in that way. But she, with her ideas,
ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't
. . . I know she hates me now. I think she never
liked me. I think nobody ever cared for me. I was
told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is
true. At any rate I can't forget it.'

"Her abominable experience with the governess had
implanted in her unlucky breast a lasting doubt, an
ineradicable suspicion of herself and of others. I
said:

'"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you
must trust a man altogether — or not at all.'

" She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard
a faint sigh. I tried to take a light tone again, and yet
it seemed impossible to get off the ground which gave
me my standing with her.

"'Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman,
but really you could not be expected to throw away
your chance of life simply that she might cherish a good
opinion of your memory. That would be excessive.'

"'It was not of my life that I was thinking while
Captain Anthony was — was speaking to me,' said Flora
de Barral with an effort.

"I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to
have been thinking of her life, and not only of her life,
but of the life of the man who was speaking to her too.
She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently.

'"I mean — death.'

"'Well,' I said, 'when he stood before you there, out-
side the cottage,, he really stood between you and that.
I have it out of your own mouth. You can't deny it.'

'"If ,"ou will have it that he saved my life, then he has
got it. It wap not for me. _Oh no! It was not for

ON THE PAVEMENT 233

me that I It was not fear! There!' She finished

petulantly: 'And you may just as well know it.'

"She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly
to and fro. I thought a little.

"'Do you know French, Miss de Barral?' I asked.

"She made a sign with her head that she did, but
without showing any surprise at the question and with-
out ceasing to swing her parasol.

" ' Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that
Captain Anthony is what the French call un galant
homme. I should like to think he is being treated as he
deserves.'

"The form of her lips (I could see them under the
brim of her hat) was suddenly altered into a line of
seriousness. The parasol stopped swinging.

"'I have given him what he wanted — that's myself,'
she said without a tremor and with a striking dignity of
tone.

"Impressed by the manner and the directness of the
words, I hesitated for a moment what to say. Then
made up my mind to clear up the point.

"'And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?'

"The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral
did not answer at once this question going to the heart
of things. Then raising her head and gazing wistfully
across the street noisy with the endless transit of in-
numerable bargains, she said with intense gravity:

" ' He has been most generous.'

"I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I
doubted the infatuation of Roderick Anthony, but I was
pleased to hear something which proved that she was
sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which
in this case was significant. In the face of man's
desire a girl is excusable if she thinks herself priceless.
I mean a girl of our civilization which has established a

234 CHANCE

dithyrambie phraseology for the expression of love.
A man in love will accept any convention exalting the
object of bis passion and in this indirect way his passion
itself. In what way the captain of the ship Ferndale
gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I could not guess
very well. But I was glad she was appreciative.
It is lucky that small things please women. And
it is not silly of them to be thus pleased. It is in small
things that the deepest loyalty, that which they need
most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best ex-
pressed.

"She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep
motionless eyes rest on the streaming jumble of traffic.
Suddenly she said :

"'And I wanted to ask you ... I was really
glad when I saw you actually here. Who would have
expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! I
certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot to me.
You are the only person who knows ... who
knows for certain . . .'

"'Knows what?' I said, not discovering at first
what she had in her mind. Then I saw it. 'Why can't
you leave that alone?' I remonstrated, rather an-
noyed at the invidious position she was forcing on me
in a sense. 'It's true that I was the only -person to
see,' I added. 'But, as it happens, after your mys-
terious disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our
meeting.'

"Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy,
unfathomable candour, if I dare say so. And if you
wonder what I mean I can only say that I have seen the
sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions
shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said
as if meditating aloud that she supposed the Fynes
were not likely to talk about that. She couldn't im-

ON THE PAVEMENT 235

agine any connection in which .... Why should
they?

"As her tone had become interrogatory I assented.
'To be sure. There's no reason whatever — ' thinking
to myself that they would be more likely to keep quiet
about it. They had other things to talk of. And then
remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an uncon-
scionable time, enough to blurt out everything he ever
knew in his life, I reflected that he would assume
naturally that Captain Anthony had nothing to learn
from him about Flora de Barral. It had been up to
now my assumption too. I saw my mistake. The
sincerest of women will make no unnecessary confi-
dences to a man. And this is as it should be.

" ' No — no ! ' I said reassuringly. ' It's most unlikely.
Are you much concerned?'

"'Well, you see, when I came down,' she said again in
that precise demure tone, ' when I came down — into the
garden Captain Anthony misunderstood — — '

"'Of course he would. Men are so conceited,' I
said.

"I saw it well enough that he must have thought she
had come down to him. What else could he have
thought? And then he had been 'gentleness itself.'
A new experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so
resisting creature. Gentleness in passion ! What could
have been more seductive to the scared, starved heart
of that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she might
have told him that what she came down to keep was
the tryst of death — not of love. It occurred to me as
I looked at her, young, fragile in aspect, and intensely
alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not know
herself then what sort of tryst she was coming down to
keep.

"She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were

236 CHANCE

totally unused to smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then
she said with that forced precision, a sort of conscious
primness :

"'I didn't want him to know.'

"I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better.
Let him ever remain under his misapprehension which
was so much more flattering for him.

"I Iried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was,
I believe, too simple to understand my intention. She
went on, looking down.

'"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't
know why you were here. I was glad when you spoke
to me because this is exactly what I wanted to ask you
for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain
Anthony — by any chance — anywhere — you are a sailor
too, are you not? — that you would never mention —
never — that — that you had seen me over there.'

'"My dear young lady,' I cried, horror-struck at the
supposition. 'Why should I? What makes you think
I should dream of . . .'

"She had raised her head at my vehemence. She
did not understand it. The world had treated her so
dishonourably that she had no notion even of what
mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault.
Indeed, I don't know why she should have put her trust
in anybody's promises. But I thought it would be
better to promise. So I assured her that she could de-
pend on my absolute silence.

"'I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain An-
thony,' I added with conviction — as a further guarantee.

"She accepted my assurance in silence, without a
sign. Her gravity had in it something acute, perhaps
because of that chin. While we were still looking at
each other she declared:

"'There's no deception in it really. I want you to

ON THE PAVEMENT 237

6elieve that if I am here, like this, to-day, it is not from
fear. It is not ! '

"'I quite understand,' I said. But her firm yet self-
conscious gaze became doubtful. 'I do,' I insisted. 'I
understand perfectly that it was not of death that you
were afraid.'

" She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on :

" 'As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know
that one ought to blame you very much — though it
seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder now if it
isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle
which . . .'

"She shuddered visibly: 'But I do blame myself,' she
exclaimed with feeling. 'I am ashamed.' And, drop-
ping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture
of remorse and shame.

" ' Well, you will be going away from all its horrors/
I said. 'And surely you are not afraid of the sea. You
are a sailor's granddaughter, I understand.'

"She sighed deeply. She remembered her grand-
father only a little. He was a clean-shaven man with
a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white hair.
He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face
near hers, talk to her in loving whispers. If only he
were alive now . . . !

"She remained silent for a while.

"'Aren't you anxious to see the ship?' I asked.

"She lowered her head still more so that I could not
see anything of her face.

'"I don't know,' she murmured.

"I had already the suspicion that she did not know
her own feelings. All this work of the merest chance had
been so unexpected, so sudden. And she had nothing
to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her
belief in every human being. She was dreadfully an*?

238 CHANCE

pitifully forlorn. It was almost in order to comfort
my own depression that I remarked cheerfully:

'"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing
extremely anxious to see you.'

'"I am before my time,' she confessed simply, rousing
herself. 'I had nothing to do. So I came out.'

"I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little
room at the other end of the town. It had grown in-
tolerable to her restlessness. The mere thought of it
oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly
at her chance confidant.

'"And I came this way,' she went on. 'I appointed
the time myself yesterday, but Captain Anthony
would not have minded. He told me he was going to
look over some business papers till I came.'

"The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the
most forlorn damsel of modern times, the man of vio-
lence, gentleness and generosity, plunged up to his neck
in ship's accounts amused me. 'I am sure he would
not have minded,' I said, smiling. But the girl's stare
was sombre, her thin white face seemed pathetically
careworn.

'"I can hardly believe yet,' she murmured anxiously.

" ' It's quite real. Never fear,' I said encouragingly,
but had to change my tone at once. 'You had better
go down that way a little,' I directed her abruptly.

"I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door.
The intelligent girl, without staying to ask questions,
walked away from me quietly down one street while I
hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his
efficient pedestrian gait. My object was to stop him
getting as far as the corner. He must have been think-
ing too hard to be aware of his surroundings. I put
myself in his way, and he nearly walked into me.

ON THE PAVEMENT 239

"'Hallo!' I said.

"His surprise was extreme. 'You here! You don't
mean to say you have been waiting for me?'

"I said negligently that I had been detained by unex-
pected business in the neighbourhood, and thus hap-
pened to catch sight of him coming- out.

"He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously
thinking of something else. I suggested that he had
better take the next city-ward tramcar. He was in-
attentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly per-
turbed. As Miss de Barral (she had moved out of sight)
could not possibly approach the hotel door as long as
we remained where we were, I proposed that we should
wait for the car on the other side of the street. Hfc.
obeyed rather the slight touch on his arm than my
words, and while we were crossing the wide roadway
in the midst of the lumbering wheeled traffic, he ex-
claimed in his deep tone, 'I don't know which of these '
two is more mad than the other!'

"'Really!' I said, pulling him forward from under
the noses of two enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses.
He skipped wildly out of the way and up on the curb-
stone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had
nothing to do with his movements. In the middle
of his leap, and while in the act of sailing gravely through
the air, he continued to relieve his outraged feel-
ings.

'"You would never believe! They are mad!'

"I took care to place myself in such a position that to
face me he had to turn his back on the hotel across the
road. I thought there was some misapprehension in
the first statement he shot out at me without loss of
time, that Captain Anthony had been glad to see him.
It was indeed difficult to believe that, directly he
opened the door, his wife's 'sailor-brother' had r>osi-

240 CHANCE

tively shouted: 'Oh, it's you! The very man I wanted
to see.'

"'I found him sitting there,' went on Fyne impres-
sively in his grave chest voice, 'drafting his will.'

"This was unexpected, but I preserved a non-com-
mittal attitude, knowing full well that our actions in
themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I did not
see what there was to be excited about. And Fyne
was distinctly excited. I understood it better when
I learned that the captain of the Ferndale wanted little
Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving every-
thing to his wife. Naturally, a request which involved
him into sanctioning in a way a proceeding which he
had been sent by his wife to oppose, must have ap-
peared sufficiently mad to Fyne.

'"Me! Me, of all people in the world!' he repeated
portentously. But I could see that he was frightened.
Such want of tact!

"'He knew I came from his sister. You don't put
a man into such an awkward position,' complained
Fyne. 'It made me speak much more strongly against
all this very painful business than I would have had
the heart to do otherwise.'

"I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my
eyes on the door of the hotel, that he and his wife were
the only bond with the land Captain Anthony had.
Who else could he have asked?

'"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond,'
declared Fyne solemnly. 'Breaking it once for all.
And for what — for what?'

"He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him
an inkling for what, but I said nothing. He started
again :

"'My wife assures me that the girl does not love him
a bit. She goes by that letter she received from her.

ON THE PAVEMENT 241

There is a passage in it where she practically admits
that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this offer
of marriage, but says to my wife that she supposes she,
my wife, will not blame her — as it was in self-defence.
My wife has her own ideas, but this is an outrageous
misapprehension of her views. Outrageous.'

"The good little man paused and then added weight-

"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law — I mean, my
wife's views.'

"No,' I said. 'What would have been the good?'
"It's positive infatuation,' agreed little Fyne, in the
tone as though he had made an awful discovery. 'I have
never seen anything so hopeless and inexplicable in my
life. I — I felt quite frightened and sorry,' he added,
while I looked at him curiously asking myself whether
ihis excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had
felt the breath of a great and fatal love-spell passing
him by in the room of that East-End hotel. He did
look for a moment as though he had seen a ghost, an
other-world thing. But that look vanished instantane*
ously, and he nodded at me with mere exasperation at
something quite of this world — whatever it was. 'It's
a bad business. My brother-in-law knows nothing of
women,' he cried with an air of profound, experienced
wisdom.

"What he imagined he knew of women himself I
can't tell. I did not know anything of the opportu-
nities he might have had. But this is a subject which, if
approached with undue solemnity, is apt 'to elude one's
grasp entirely. No doubt Fyne knew something of a
woman who was Captain Anthony's sister. But that,
admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I smiled
at him gently, and as if encouraged or provoked, he
completed his thought rather explosively.

242 CHANCE

"'And that girl understands nothing. . . . It's
sheer lunacy.'

'"I don't know,' I said, 'whether the circumstances
of isolation at sea would be any alleviation to the dan-
ger. But it's certain that they will have the oppor-
tunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely
tete-a-tete.'

"'But dash it all,' he cried in hollow accents which
at the same time had the tone of bitter irony — I had
never before heard a sound so quaintly ugly and al-
most horrible — 'You forget Mr. Smith.'

'"What Mr. Smith?' I asked innocently.

"Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace.
I believe it was quite involuntary, but you know that a
grave, much-lined, shaven countenance when distorted
in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a sur-
prising sight, and rendered me not only speechless but
stopped the progress of my thought completely. I
must have presented a remarkably imbecile appearance.

" ' My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me
about us introducing the girl as Miss Smith,' said Fyne,
going surly in a moment. 'He said that perhaps if he
had heard her real name from the first it might have
restrained him. As it was, he made the discovery too
late. Asked me to tell Zoe this together with a lot
more nonsense.'

"Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped
from a man inspired by a grimly playful ebullition of
high spirits. It must have been most distasteful to
him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the
process, I perceived. There were holes in it through
which I could see a new, an unknown Fyne.

"'You wouldn't believe it,' he went on, 'but that girl
looks upon her father exclusively as a victim. I don't
know/ he burst out suddenly through an enormous rent

ON THE PAVEMENT 243

in his solemnity, 'if she thinks him absolutely a saint,
but she certainly imagines him to be a martyr.'

"It is one of the advantages of that magnificent
invention, the prison, that you may forget people who
are put there as though they were dead. One needn't
worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that
you can help. They can do nothing which might pos-
sibly matter to anybody. They come out of it, though,
but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves
or any one else. I had completely forgotten the finan-
cier de Barral. The girl for me was an orphan, but now
I perceived suddenly the force of Fyne's qualifying
statement, 'to a certain sxtent.' It would have been
infinitely more kind all round for the law to have shot,
beheaded, strangled, or otherwise destroyed this ab-
surd de Barral, who was a danger to a moral world in-
habited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care of
itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane
was the view she held, one could not declare the girl
mad on that account. <

'"So she thinks of her father — does she? I suppose
she would appear to us saner if she thought only of
herself.'

'"I am positive,' Fyne said earnestly, 'that she went
and made desperate eyes at Anthony . . . '

'"Oh come!' I interrupted. 'You haven't seen her
make eyes. You don't know the colour of her eyes.'

"'Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly
have come to that if she hadn't. . . . It's all one,
though. I tell you she has led him on, or accepted
him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her
father. She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I be-
lieve. She cares for no one. Never cared for any one.
Ask Zoe. For myself I don't blame her,' added Fyne,
giving me another view of unsuspected things through

244 CHANCE

the rags and tatters of his damaged solemnity. 'No!
by heavens, I don't blame her — the poor devil.'

"I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections
are, in a sense, to be learned. If there exists a native
spark of love in all of us, it must be fanned while we are
young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched
in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined.
But I was surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this.

"'She loves no one except that preposterous adver-
tising shark,' he pursued venomously, but in a more
deliberate manner. 'And Anthony knows it.'

'"Does he?' I said doubtfully.

'"She's quite capable of having told him herself,'
affirmed Fyne, with amazing insight. 'But whether
or no, I've told him.'

"'You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course.'

"Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my in-
sight.

'"And how did Captain Anthony receive this in-
teresting information?' I asked further.

"'Most improperly,' said Fyne, who really was in a
state in which he didn't mind what he blurted out.
'He isn't himself. He begged me to tell his sister that
he offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper
and inconsequent. He said ... I was tired of this
wrangling. I told him I made allowances for the state
of excitement he was in.'

"'You know, Fyne,' I said, 'a man in jail seems to
me such an incredible, cruel, nightmarish sort of thing
that I can hardly believe in his existence. Certainly
not in relation to any other existences.'

"'But dash it all,' cried Fyne, 'he isn't shut up for
life. They are going to let him out. He's coming out!
That's the whole trouble. What is he coming out to, I
want to know? It seems a more cruel business than

ON THE PAVEMENT 245

the shutting him up was. This has been the Vvorry for
weeks. Do you see now?'

"I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I
saw the excitement of little Fyne — mere food for won-
der. Further off, in a sort of gloom and beyond the
light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the
figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with small
steps, a slight girlish figure by his side. And the gloom
was like the gloom of villainous slums, of misery, of
wretchedness, of a starved and degraded existence.
It was a relief that I could see only their shabby hope-
less backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to
call him a ghost was only a refinement of polite speech,
and a manner of concealing one's terror of such things.
Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Open — shut. Very
neat. Shut — open. And out comes some sort of
corpse, to wander awfully in a world in which it has no
possible connections and carrying with it the appalling
tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous ar-
rangement. It works automatically, and, when you
look at it, the perfection makes you sick; which for a
mere mechanism is no mean triumph. Sick and scared.
It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death. Faricy
having to take such a thing by the hand! Now I
understood the remorseful strain I had detected in her
speeches.

"'By Jove!' I said. 'They are about to let him
out! I never thought of that.'

"Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things
at large.

"'You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for
life?'

"At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral
at the junction of the two streets. Then some vehicles
following each other in quick succession hid from my

246 CHANCE

sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour
in her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have
been caution or reluctance. While listening to Fyne I
stared hard past his shoulder, trying to catch sight of her
again. He was going on with positive heat, the rags
of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sen-
tence.

"That was just it. His wife and he had been per-
fectly aware of it. Of course the girl never talked of
her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose with her theory
of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have
been thinking of it day and night. What to do with
him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul to-
gether? He had never made any friends. The only
relations were the atrocious East-End cousins. We
know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness,
whichever way she turned in an unjust and prejudiced
world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be
too much for her.

"I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was
not necessary. This complete knowledge was in my
head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard
that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep
voice indignantly.

"'I don't blame the girl,' he was saying. 'He is
infatuated with her. Anybody can see that. Why
she got such a hold on him I can't understand. She
said "Yes" to him only for the sake of that fatuous,
swindling father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one
thinks it over a moment. One needn't even think of
it. We have it under her own hand. In that letter
to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She
has owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should
like to know. And so they are to be married before
that old idiot comes out. . , . He will be surprised,'

ON THE PAVEMENT 247

commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant
tone. 'He will be met at the jail door by a Mrs.
Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very pleasant
for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means
to turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It's
extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charm-
ing family party. We three against the world — and
all that sort of thing. And what for? For a girl that
doesn't care twopence for him.'

"The demon of bitterness had entered into little
Fyne. He amazed me as though he had changed his
skin from white to black. It was quite as wonderful.
And he kept it up, too.

'"Luckily there are some advantages in the — the pro-
fession of a sailor. As long as they defy the world away
at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, I
don't mind so much. I wonder what that interesting
old party will say. He will have another surprise.
They mean to drag him along with them on board the
ship straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roder-
ick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all. . . .'

"He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going
to say the 'son of the poet,' as usual; but his mind was
not running on such vanities now. His unspoken
thought must have gone on 'and uncle of my girls.'
I suspect that he had been roughly handled by Captain
Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a tremen-
dous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those men of
sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative
faculty, are very thorough. 'Just think!' he cried.
'The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and
Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that astonished
old jail-bird ! '

" The good little man laughed. An improper sound it
was to come from his manly chest; and what made it

248 CHANCE

worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a mete
hair's breadth, he might have taken this affair senti-
mentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His
brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to use the
language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a
heart like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant by
'wrangling' I don't know but I had no doubt that these
two had 'wrangled' to a profoundly disturbing extent.
How much the other was affected I could not even im-
agine; but the man before me was quite amazingly
upset.

"'In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!' I mut-
tered, startled by the change in Fyne.

" ' That's the plan — nothing less. If I am to believe
what I have been told, his feet will scarcely touch the
ground between the prison-gates and the deck of that
ship.'

"The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered
tone which I heard without difficulty. The rumbling,
composite noises of the street were hushed for a moment,
during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if
the stream of commerce had dried up at its source.
Having an unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder,
I was astonished to see that the girl was still there. I
thought she had gone up long before. But there was
her black slender figure, her white face under the
roses of her hat. She stood on the edge of the pave-
ment as people stand on the bank of a stream, very
still, as if waiting — or as if unconscious of where she
was. The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see
them too; they hadn't budged an inch) seemed to me
to be watching her. Which was horrible.

"Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable
things — for him. He declared first it was a mercy in a
sense. Then he asked me if it were not real madness,

ON THE PAVEMENT 249

to saddle one's existence with such a perpetual re-
minder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound
existence. To bring such an additional strain into the
solitude already trying enough for two people was the
craziest thing. Undesirable relations were bad enough
on shore. One could cut them or at least forget their
existence now and then. He himself was preparing
to forget his brother-in-law's existence as much as
possible.

"That was the general sense of his remarks, not his
exact words. I thought that his wife's brother's ex-
istence had never been very embarrassing to him, but
that now of course he would have to abstain from his
allusions to the 'son of the poet — you know.' I said
'yes, yes' in the pauses because I did not want him to
turn round; and all the time I was watching the girl
intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with
her 'He was most generous.' Yes. Generosity of
character may carry a man through any situation.
But why didn't she go then to her generous man?
Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which
she surely hated as one must hate the place where one
has been tormented, hopeless, unhappy? Suddenly
she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She
turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone,
reminding me of the time when I discovered her walk-
ing near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. It was
the same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim,
with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly
clasped in front — only now a small sunshade was
dangling from them. I saw something fateful in that
deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with
the words Hotel Entrance on the glass panels.

"She was abreast of it now and I thought that sht
would stop again; but no ! She swe rved rigidly — at the

250 CHANCE

moment there was no one near her; she had that bit
of pavement to herself — with inanimate slowness as
if moved by something outside herself.

"'A confounded convict,' Fyne burst out.

"With the sound of that word offending my ears I
saw the girl extend her arm, push the door open a little
way and glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the
hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-
walker.

"She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the
darkness of the open door. For some time Fyne said
nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, ap-
pearing before the man. Were they looking at each
other in silence and feeling they were alone in the world
as lovers should at the moment of meeting? But that
fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to Anthony
the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with
Fyne the emissary of an order of things which stops
at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed
I couldn't tell because I did not know what that im-
petuous lover had had to listen to.

"'Going to take the old fellow to sea with them,'
I said. 'Well I really don't see what else they could
have done with him. You told your brother-in-law
what you thought of it? I wonder how he took
it.'

"'Very improperly,' repeated Fyne. 'His manner
was offensive, derisive, from the first. I don't mean
he was actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a
contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got
hold of a miserable girl.'

"'It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor
and miserable,' I murmured.

"It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony
had got on Fyne's nerves, ' I told the fellow very plainly

ON THE PAVEMENT 251

that he was abominably selfish in this,' he affirmed un-
expectedly.

'"You did! Selfish!' I said, rather taken aback.
'But what if the girl thought that, on the contrary, he
was most generous?'

"What do you know about it?' growled Fyne. The
rents and slashes of his solemnity were closing up grad-
ually but it was going to be a surly solemnity. ' Gene-
rosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No.
Not folly,' he shot out at me as though I had meant to
interrupt him. 'Still another. Something worse. 1
need not tell you what it is,' he added with grim mean-
ing.

"'Certainly. You needn't — unless you like,' I said
blankly. Little Fyne had never interested me so much
since the beginning of the de Barral-Anthony affair
when I first perceived possibilities in him. The possi-
bilities of dull men are exciting because when they
happen they suggest legendary cases of 'possession'
not exactly by the devil but, anyhow, by a strange
spirit.

"'I told him it was a shame,' said Fyne. 'Even
if the girl did make eyes at him — but I think with you
that she did not. Yes! A shame to take advantage
of a girl's distress — a girl that does not love him in the
least.'

"'You think it's so bad as that?' I said. 'Because
you know I don't.'

'"What can you think about it?' he retorted on me
with a solemn stare. ' I go by her letter to my wife.'

" 'Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually
read it,' I said.

'"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most
improper sort of letter to write considering the circum-
stances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to discover how thor-»

252 CHANCE

oughly she had been misunderstood. But what is
written is not all. It's what my wife could read between
the lines. She says that the girl is really terrified at
heart.'

'"She had not much in life to give her any very
special courage for it, or any great confidence in man-
kind. That's very true. But this seems an exagger-
ation.'

" 'I should like to know what reasons you have to say
that?' asked Fyne with offended solemnity. 'I really
don't see any. But I had sufficient authority to tell my
brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do
something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can
see very well that he will do everything she asks him to
do — but, all the same, it is rather a pitiless transac-
tion.'

"For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught
sight of an approaching tram-car and stepped out on
the road to meet it. 'Have you a more compassionate
scheme ready?' I called after him. He made no
answer, clambered on to the rear platform, and only
then looked back. We exchanged a perfunctory wave
of the hand. We also looked at each other, he rather
angrily, I fancy, and I with wonder. I may also men-
tion that it was for the last time. From that day I
never set eyes on the Fynes. As usual the unexpected
happened to me. It had nothing to do with Flora de
Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was
not like her call. Mine was not urged on me with
passionate vehemence or tender gentleness made all the
finer and more compelling by the allurements of gene-
rosity which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but
having a glamour of its own. No, it was just a prosaic
offer of employment on rather good terms which, with
a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long

ON THE PAVEMENT 253

enough, I accepted without misgivings. And once
started out of my indolence I went, as my habit was,
very, very far away and for a long, long time. Which
is another proof of my indolence. How far Flora went
I can't say. But I will tell you my idea: my idea is
that she went as far as she was able — as far as she could
bear it — as far as she had to. . . „"

part n

THE KNIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE FERNDALE

I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was im-
parted to me in stages. At this stage I did not see
Marlow for some time. At last, one evening rather
early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms.

I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark
which had not occurred to me till after he hadgoneaway.

"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be cer-
tain that Flora de Barral ever went to sea? After all,
the wife of the Captain of the Ferndale — 'the lady that
mustn't be disturbed' of the old ship-keeper — may
not have been Flora."

"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have
been keeping in touch with Mr. Powell."

"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it.
And since when?"

"Why, since the first day. You went up to town
leaving me in the inn. I slept ashore. In the morning
Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after the first
awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning
with over-night had worn off, we discovered a liking
for each other."

As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking
before either of them, I was not surprised.

"And so you kept in touch," I said.

"It was not so very difficult. As he was always
knocking about the river, I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged
tbree-tonner to be more on an equality, Powell was

258 CHANCE

friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to
avoid me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear
out of the river in a very mysterious manner sometimes.
A man may land anywhere and bolt inland — but what
about his five-ton cutter? You can't carry that in
your hand like a suit-case.

"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river,
after one had given him up. I did not like to be beaten.
That's why I hired Dingle's decked boat. There was
just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a
dog. But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog
who saved Flora de Barral's life is the last dog-friend
I had. I was rather lonely cruising about; but that,
too, on the river has its charm, sometimes. I chased
the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, looking
about me at the ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of
life's chances — and, do you know, it was very simple."

"What was very simple?" I asked innocently.

"The mystery."

"They are generally that," I said.

Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner.

"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's
disappearances. The fellow used to run into one of
these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex shore. These
creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the
chart pretty carefully I did not know of their existence.
One afternoon, I made out Powell's boat, heading into
the shore. By the time I got close to the mud-flat
his craft had disappeared inland. But I could see the
mouth of the creek by then. The tide being on the
turn I took the risk of getting stuck in the mud sud-
denly and headed in. All I had to guide me was the
top of the roof of some sort of small building. I got in
more by good luck" than by good management. The
sun had set some time before; my boat glided in a sort

THE FERNDALE 259

of winding ditch between two low grassy banks; on
both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh,
perfectly still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was
flying low, and disappeared in the murk. Before
I had gone half a mile, I was up with the building the
roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like
a small barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank
in front of it and supporting a few planks made a sort
of wharf. All this was black in the falling dusk, and I
could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart-track
stretching over the marsh towards the higher land, far
away. Not a sound was to be heard. Against the
low streak of light in the sky I could see the mast of
Powell's cutter moored to the bank some twenty yards,
no more, beyond that black barn or whatever it was.
I hailed him with a loud shout. Got no answer. After
making fast my boat just astern, I walked along the
bank to hav*e a look at Powell's. Being so much bigger
than mine she was aground already. Her sails were
furled; the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and
padlocked. Powell was gone. He had walked off into
that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a
single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be
any human habitation for miles; and now as darkness
fell denser over the land I couldn't see the glimmer of a
single light. However, I supposed that there must be
some village or hamlet not very far away; or only one
of these mysterious little inns one comes upon some-
times in most unexpected and lonely places.

"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my
boat, made some coffee over a spirit-lamp, devoured a
few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to smoke and
gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, form-
less and silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up from
somewhere, quite shadowy too. He came smartly

260 CHANCE

to the very edge of the bank as though he meant to
'step on board, stretched his muzzle right over my boat,
blew heavily once, and walked off contemptuously
into the darkness from which he had come. I had not
expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's
thought would have shown me that there must be lots
of cattle and sheep on that marsh. Then everything
became still as before. I might have imagined myself
arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined smok-
ing, a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And
just as it had become intense, very abruptly and with-
out any preliminary sound I heard firm, quick footstep's
on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the cart-
track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the
planks. That somebody could only have been Mr.
Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, having made out
that there were two masts alongside the bank where he
had left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass.
When I spoke to him he was astonished.

"'Who would have thought of seeing you here!' he
exclaimed, after returning my good evening.

" ' I told him I had run in for company. It was rigor-
ously true.

"'You knew I was here?' he exclaimed.

"'Of course,' I said. 'I tell you I came in for com-
pany.'

"He is really a good fellow," went on Marlow. "And
his capacity for astonishment is quickly exhausted, it
seems. It was in the most matter-of-fact manner that
he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I have here enough
supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in
the crook of his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice,
as you may guess. His cutter has a very neat little
cabin, quite big enough for two men not only to sleep
but to sit and smoke in. We left the scuttle wide

THE FERNDALE 261

open, of course. As to his provisions for supper, they
were not of a luxurious kind. He complained that the
shops in the village were miserable. There was a big
village within a mile and a half. It struck me he had
been very long doing his shopping; but naturally I made
no remark. I didn't want to talk at all except for the
purpose of setting him going."

"And did you set him going?" I asked.

"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an
impenetrable expression which somehow assured me of
his success better than an air of triumph could have
done.

"You made him talk?" I said after a silence.

"Yes, I made him . . . about himself."

"And to the point?"

**If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was
about the voyage of the Ferndale, then again, yes. I
brought him to talk about that voyage, which, by the by,
was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man
himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of won-
der not very great. He's one of those people who form
no theories about facts. Straightforward people sel-
dom do. Neither have they much penetration. But in
this case it did not matter. I — we — have already the
inner knowledge. We know the history of Flora de
Barral. We know something of Captain Anthony.
We have the secret of the situation. The man was
intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part.
Oh, yes! Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you
know that love and desire take many disguises. I be-
lieve that the girl had been frank with him, with the
frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is im-
possible, because so much of their safety depends on
iudicious reticences. I am not indulging in cheap

262 CHANCE

sneers. There is necessity in these things. And more-
over she could not have spoken with a certain voice
in the face of his impetuosity, because she did not have
time to understand either the state of her feelings, or
the precise nature of what she was doing.

"Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it,
too elated to hear her distinctly, I don't mean to
imply that he was a fool. Oh, dear no ! But he had
no training in the usual conventions, and we must re-
member that he had no experience whatever of women.
He could only have an ideal conception of his position.
An ideal is often but a flaming vision of reality.

"To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express my-
self so irreverently, wound up to a high pitch by his
wife's interpretation of the girl's letter. He enters
with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket
of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But the ef-
fects of a bucket of water are diverse. They depend on
the kind of flame. A mere blaze of dry straw, of
course . . . but there can be no question of straw
there. Anthony of the Ferndale was not, could not
have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of a man. There
are flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky-high.

"We may well wonder what happened when, after
Fyne had left him, the hesitating girl went up at last
and opened the door of that room where our man, I
am certain, was not extinguished. Oh, no! Nor cold;
whatever else he might have been.

"It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the
first moment of humiliation, of exasperation, 'Oh, it's
you! Why are you here? If I am so odious to you
that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you
back your word.' But then, don't you see, it could not
have been that. I have the practical certitude that
soon afterwards they went together in a hansom to

THE FERNDALE 268

see the ship — as agreed. That was my reason for say-
ing that Flora de Barral did go to sea. ..."

"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even
without that — if, as you seem to think, the very desola-
tion of that girlish figure had a sort of perversely seduc-
tive charm, making its way through his compassion
to his senses (and everything is possible) — then such
words could not have been spoken."

"They might have escaped him involuntarily,"
observed Marlow. "However, a plain fact settles it.
They went off together to see the ship."

"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever
was said?" I inquired.

"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their
glances upstairs there," mused Marlow. "And per-
haps nothing was said. But no man comes out of such
a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without showing some
traces of it. And you may be sure that a girl so bruised
all over would feel the slightest touch of anything re-
sembling coldness. She was mistrustful; she could not
be otherwise; for the energy of evil is so much more forc-
ible than the energy of good that she could not help
looking still upon her abominable governess as an au-
thority. How could one have expected her to throw
off the unholy prestige of that long domination? She
could not help believing what she had been told; that
she was in some mysterious way odious and unlovable.
It was cruelly true— to her. The oracle of so many
years had spoken finally. Only other people did not
find her out at once. . . . I would not go so far as to
say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly
possible. But then haven't the most flattered, the
most conceited of us their moments of doubt? Haven't
they ? Well, I don't know. There may be lucky beings
in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves.

264 CHANCE

V .>-

For my own part I'll tell you that once, many years
ago now, it came to my knowledge that a fellow I had
been mixed up with in a certain transaction — a clever
fellow whom I really despised — was going around telling
people that I was a consummate hypocrite. He could
know nothing of it. It suited his humour to say so. I
had given him no ground for that particular calumny.
Yet to this day there are moments when it comes into
my mind, and involuntarily I ask myself, 'What if it
were true?' It's absurd, but it has on one or two oc-
casions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was not
an impressionable, ignorant young girl. I had taken
the exact measure of the fellow's utter worthlessness
long before. He had never been for me a person of
prestige and power, like that awful governess to Flora
de Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at
the mercy of a malevolent word. A sound, a men
disturbance of the air, sinks into our very soul some-
times, ilora de BarraJ had been more astounded than
convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony.
She let herself be carried along by a mysterious force
which her person had called into being, as her father
had been carried away out of his depth by the unex-
pected power of successful advertising.

"They went on board that morning. The Ferndale
had just come to her loading berth. The only living
creature on board was the ship-keeper — whether the
same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, or
another, I don't know. Possiblysome other man. He,
looking over the side, saw, in his own words, 'the cap-
tain come sailing round the corner of the nearest cargo-
shed, in company with a girl.' He lowered the accom-
modation ladder down on to the jetty ..."

"How do you know all this?" I interrupted.
, Marlow interjected an imDatient. —

THE FERNDALE 265

"You shall see by and by. . . . Flora went up
first, got down on deck and stood stock-still till the
captain took her by the arm and led her aft. The ship-
keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all
the cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain
ordered him to open all the doors, every blessed door;
state-rooms, passages, pantry, fore-cabin — and then
sent him away.

"The Ferndale had magnificent accommodation. At
the end of a passage leading from the quarter-deck there
Was a long saloon, its sumptuosity slightly tarnished
perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and com-
fort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging
lamps hung, and everything in its place, even to the
silver on the sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened
out of it, one on each side of the rudder casing. These
two cabins communicated through a small bathroom
between them, and one was fitted up as the captain's
state-room. The other was vacant, and furnished with
arm-chairs and a round table, more like a room on
shore, except for the long curved settee following the
shape of the ship's stern. In a dim inclined mirror,
Flora caught sight down to the waist of a pale-faced
girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant,
shadowy, as if immersed in water, and was surprised
to recognize herself in those surroundings. They
seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. Captain
Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed
her the other cabins. He talked all the time loudly
in a voice she seemed to have known extremely well for
a long time; and yet, she reflected, she had not heard
it often in her life. What he was saying she did not
quite follow. He was speaking of comparatively in-
different things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it
round her like a caress. And when he stopped she could

266 CHANCE

hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the precipitated
beating of her heart.

" The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out
of hearing, and trying to keep out of sight. At the
same time, taking advantage of the open doors with
skill and prudence, he could see the captain and 'that
girl' the captain had brought aboard. The captain
was showing her round very thoroughly. Through
the whole length of the passage, far away aft in the
perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had interest-
ing glimpses of them as they went in and out of the
various cabins, crossing from side to side, remaining
invisible for a time in one or another of the state-rooms,
and then reappearing again in the distance. The
girl, always following the captain, had her sunshade in
her hands. Mostly she would hang her head, but now
and then she would look up. They had a lot to say
to each other and seemed to forget they weren't alone
in the ship. He saw the captain put his hand on her
shoulder, and was preparing himself with a certain zest
for what might follow, when the 'old man' seemed to
recollect himself, and came striding down all the length
of the saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly
dodged out of sight, as you may believe, and heard the
captain slam the inner door of the passage. After
that disappointment the ship-keeper waited resentfully
for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much
sooner than he had expected. The girl walked out
on deck first. As before she did not look round. She
didn't look at anything; and she seemed to be in such
a hurry to get ashore that she made for the gangway
and started down the ladder without waiting for the
captain.

"What struck the shipkeeper most was the absent,
Unseeing expression of the captain, striding after the

THE FERNDALE 267

giri. He passed him, the ship-keeper, without notice,
without an order, without so much as a look. The
captain had never done so before. Always had a nod
and a pleasant word for a man. Frpm this slight the
ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to the
strange girl. He gave them time to get down on the
wharf before crossing the deck to steal one more look
at the pair over the rail. The captain took hold of
the girl's arm just before a couple of railway trucks
drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them from
the ship-keeper's sight for good.

"Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he
told him the tale of the visit, and expressed himself
about the girl 'who had got hold cf the captain' dis-
paragingly. She didn't look healthy, he explained.
'Shabby clothes, too,' he added spitefully.

"The mate was very much interested. He had been
with Anthony for several years, and had won for himself
in the course of many long voyages, a footing of famili-
arity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony's
character. But in that slowly grown intimacy of the
sea, which in its duration and solitude had its unguarded
moments, no words had passed, even of the most casual,
to prepare him for the vision of his captain associated
with any kind of girl. His impression had been that
women did not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting
himself with a girl ! A girl ! What did he want with a
girl? Bringing her on board and showing her round
the cabin! That was really a little bit too much.
Captain Anthony ought to have known better.

"Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin)
felt disappointed; almost disillusioned. Silly thing
to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper set
talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to
think of that insignificant bit of foolishness no more;

268 CHANCE

for it diminished Captain Anthony in his eyes of a
jealously devoted subordinate.

"Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive.
She stood in the forefront of all women for him, just as
Captain Anthony stood in the forefront of all men.
We may suppose that these groups were not very large.
He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feelings
which caused these two people to partly eclipse the
rest of mankind were of course not similar; though in
time he had acquired the conviction that he was
'taking care' of them both. The 'old lady' of course
had to be looked after as long as she lived. In regard to
Captain Anthony, he used to say that: why should he
leave him? It wasn't likely that he would come across
a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable
ship. As to trying to better himself in the way of pro-
motion, commands were not the sort of thing one picked
up in the streets, and when it came to that, Captain
Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as
any one in the world.

"From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short,
thick, black-haired man, bald on the top. His head
sunk between the shoulders, his staring prominent
eyes and a florid colour gave him a rather apoplectic
appearance. In repose, his congested face had a humor-
ously melancholy expression. '

"The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys
and having been chased forward with the admonition
to mind his own business and not to chatter about what
did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the
poop. He opened one door after another; and, in the
saloon, in the captain's state-room and everywhere, he
stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the bulk-
heads, on the deck, in the air, something unusual — sign,
mark, emanation, shadow — he hardly knew what — some

THE FERNDALE 269

subtle change wrought by the passage of a girl. But
there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied stern
cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two
stern ports. In the absence of all material evidences
his uneasiness was passing away. With a last glance
round he came out and found himself in the presence
of his captain advancing from the other end of the
saloon.

"Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't
to be seen. The captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you
are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the mate said, 'I was
giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the captain,
his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the
table and asked in his kind way: 'How did you find
your mother, Franklin?' — 'The old lady's first-rate, sir,
thank you.' And then they had nothing to say to each
other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling for
Franklin. He, just back from leave, the ship just come
to her loading berth, the captain just come on board,
and apparently nothing to say! The several questions
heliad been anxious to ask as to various things which
had to be done had slipped out of his mind. He, too,
felt as though he had nothing to say .

"The captain, picking up his stick off the table,
marched into his state-room and shut the door after
him. Franklin remained still for a moment and then
started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time
to reach the other end of the saloon he heard himself
called by name. He turned round. The captain was
staring from the doorway of his state-room. Franklin
said, 'Yes, sir.' But the captain, silent, leaned a little
forward grasping the door handle. So he, Franklin,
walked aft keeping his eyes on him. When he had
come up quite close he said again, 'Yes, sir?' interroga-
tively Still silence. The mate didn't like to be stared

270 CHANCE

at in that manner, a manner quite new in Ms captain,
with a defiant and self-conscious stare, like a man
who feels ill and dares you to notice it. Franklin
gazed at his captain, felt that there was something
wrong, and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking
point-blank —

'"What's wrong, sir?'

"The captain gave a slight start, and the character
of his stare changed to a sort of sinister surprise.
Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but the captain
asked negligently —

"What makes you think that there's something
wrong?'

" ' I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself,
sir,' Franklin owned up.

"'You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye,'
said the captain in such an aggressive tone that Franklin
was moved to defend himself.

'"We have been together now over six years, sir, so
I suppose I know you a bit by this time. I could see
there was something wrong directly you came on
board.'

'"Mr. Franklin,' said the captain, 'we have been
more than six years together, it is true, but I didn't
know you for a reader of faces. You are not a correct
reader though. It's very far from being wrong. You
understand? As far from being wrong as it can very
well be. It ought to teach you not to make rash
surmises. You should leave that to the shore people,
They are great hands at spying out something wrong.
I dare say they know what they have made of the world.
A dam' poor job they make of it, and that's plain.
The world is a confoundedly ugly place, Mr. Franklin.
You don't know anything of it? Well — no, we sailors
don't. Only now and then one of us runs against some-

THE FERNDALE 271

thing cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair
stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their
wickedness you find that to set it right is not so easy
as it looks. . . . Oh! I called you back to tell you
that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that,
sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to
start making alterations in the cabin. You will see
to it that they don't loaf. There isn't much time.'

"Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture
upon the wickedness of the solid world surrounded by
the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he and his cap-
tain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What
he could not understand was why it should have been
delivered, and what connection it could have with such a
matter as the alterations to be carried out in the cabin.
The work did not seem to him to be called for in such a
hurry. What was the use of altering anything? It
was a very good accommodation, spacious, well-
distributed, on a rather old-fashioned plan, and with its
decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of var-
nish, a touch of gilding here and there, was all that
was necessary. As to comfort, it could not be improved
by any alterations. He resented the notion of change;
but he said dutifully that he would keep his eye on the
workmen if the captain would only let him know what
was the nature of the work he had ordered to be done.

" ' You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it
for you as I go ashore,' said Captain Anthony hastily.
Franklin thought there was no more to hear, and made
a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain
continued after a slight pause, 'You will be surprised,
no doubt, when you look at it. There'll be a good many
alterations. It's on account of a lady coming with us.
I am going to get married, Mr. Franklin!'

CHAPTER TWO

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS

"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared
that Mr. Powell's want of experience would stand in his
way of appreciating the unusual. The unusual I had
in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the
unusual in marital relations. I may well have doubted
the capacity of a young man too much concerned with
the creditable performance of his professional duties
to observe what in the nature of things is not easily
observable in itself, and still less so under the special
circumstances. In the majority of ships a second officer
has not many points of contact with the captain's wife.
He sits at the same table with her at meals, generally
speaking; he may now and then be addressed more or
less kindly on insignificant matters, and have the op-
portunity to show her some small attentions on deck.
And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can be
seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding
now to troubles which are subtle often to the extent
of not being understood by the very hearts they devas-
tate or uplift.

" Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had
thrown upon the floating stage of that tragi-comedy,
would have been perfectly useless for my purpose if
the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his
attention from the first.

"We know how he joined that ship so suddenly
offered to his anxious desire to make a real start in his

272

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 273

profession. He had come on board breathless with the
hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied
by two horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock police-
man on the make, received by an asthmatic shadow
of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in the
darkness of the passage because the captain and his
wife were already on board. That in itself was al-
ready somewhat unusual. Captains and their wives do
not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary.
They prefer to spend the last moments with their friends
and relations. A ship in one of London's older docks
with their restrictions as to lights and so on is not the
place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide served at
six in the morning, one could understand them coming
on board the evening before.

"Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to
be glad enough to be quit of the shore. We know he
was an orphan from a very early age, without brothers
or sisters — no near relations of any kind, I believe, ex-
cept that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No
affections stood in the way of the quiet satisfaction with
which he thought that now all the worries were over,
that there was nothing before him but duties, that he
knew what he would have to do as soon as the dawn broke
and for a long succession qf days. A most soothing
certitude. He enjoyed it in the dark, stretched out in
his bunk with his new blankets pulled over him. Some
clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. And
then he heard nothing more, because he went off into
a light sleep from which he woke up with a start. He
had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth while.
He jumped up and went on deck.

"The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead;
the dock like a sheet of darkling glass crowded with
upside-down reflections of warehouses, of hulls and

274 CHANCE

masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and
there on the distant quays. A knot of men stood along-
side with clothes-bags and wooden chests at their feet.
Others were coming down the lane between tall, blind
walls, surrounding a hand-cart loaded with more bags
and boxes. It was the crew of the Ferndale. They be-
gan to come on board. He scanned their faces as they
passed forward filling the roomy deck with the shuffle
of their footsteps and the murmur of voices, like the
awakening to life of a world about to be launched into
space.

"Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle
of the long dock, Mr. Powell watched the tugs coming
in quietly through the open gates. A subdued firm
voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It
was Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was addressing
him with a watchful appraising stare of his prominent
black eyes: 'You'd better take a couple of these chaps
with you and look out for her aft. We are going to
cast off.'

" ' Yes, sir,' Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a
moment they remained looking at each other fixedly.
Something like a faint smile altered the set of the chief
mate's lips just before he moved off forward with his
brisk step,

"Mr. Powell, getting up* on the poop, touched his cap
to Captain Anthony, who was there alone. He tells
me that it was only then that he saw his captain for the
first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what
with the bad light and his excitement at this berth
obtained as if by a brusque and unscrupulous miracle,
did not count. He had then seemed to him much
older and heavier. He was surprised at the lithe figure,
broad of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the fire of the
:deep-set eyes, the springiness of the walk. The cap-

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 275

tain gave him a steady stare, nodded slightly, and went
on pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of
what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid.

"Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity
very natural under the circumstances. He wore a short
grey jacket and a grey cap. In the light of the dawn,
growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell
noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed
beard, the perpendicular fold on the forehead, something
hard and set about the mouth.

"It was too early yet for the work to have begun in
the dock. The water gleamed placidly, no movement
anywhere on the long straight lines of the quays, no
one about to be seen except the few dock hands busy
alongside the Ferndale, knowing their work, mostly
silent or exchanging a few words in low tones as if
they, too, had been aware of that lady 'who mustn't
be disturbed.' The Ferndale was the only ship to leave
that tide. The others seemed still asleep, without a
sound, and only here and there a figure, coming up
on the forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch the pro-
ceedings idly. Without trouble and fuss and almost
without a sound was the Ferndale leaving the land, as if
stealing away. Even the tugs, now with their engines
stopped, were approaching her without a ripple, the
burly-looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the
other, a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for
her quarter so gently that she did not divide the smooth
water, but seemed to glide on its surface as if on a sheet
of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at the wheel
visible only from the waist upwards above the white
screen of the bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to
fascinate young Powell into curious self-forgetfulness
and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the general
quietness, remembering the statement 'she's a lady

276 CHANCE

that mustn't be disturbed,' and repeating to himself
idly: 'No. She won't be disturbed. She won't be dis-
turbed.' Then the first ioud words of that morning
breaking that strange hush of departure with a sharp
hail: 'Look out for that line there,' made him start.
The line whizzed past his head, one of the sailors aft
caught it, and there was an end to the fascination, to
the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at the
very moment of departure. From that moment till
two hours afterwards, when the ship was brought up
in one of the lower reaches of the Thames of an ap-
parently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet
where nothing but two anchored barges flying a red
flag could be seen, Powell was too busy to think of the
lady 'that mustn't be disturbed,' or of his captain —
or of anything else unconnected with his immediate
duties. In fact, he had no occasion to go on the poop
or even look that way much; but while the ship was
about to anchor, casting his eyes in that direction, he
received an absurd impression- that his captain (he was
up there, of course) was sitting on both sides of the
aftermost skylight at once. He was too occupied
to reflect on this curious delusion, this phenomenon
of seeing double as though he had had a drop too much.
He only smiled at himself.

"As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun
had risen in a warm and glorious splendour above the
smooth, immense gleam of the enlarged estuary. Wisps
of mist floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the
dazzling reflections of water and vapour, the shores
had the murky, semi-transparent darkness of shadows
cast mysteriously from below. Powell, who had sailed
out of London all his young seaman's life, told me that
it was then, in a moment of entranced vision an hour
or so after sunrise, that the river was revealed to him

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 277

for all time, like a fair face often seen before, which
is suddenly perceived to be the expression of an inner
and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and
only its own which rouses a passion of wonder and
fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its charm.
The hull of the Ferndale, swung head to the eastward,
caught the light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in
a bath of red-gold, from the water-line full of glitter
to the trucks slight and gleaming against the delicate
expanse of the blue.

"Time we had a mouthful to eat,' said a voice at his
side. It was Mr. Franklin, the chief mate, with his
head sunk between his shoulders, and . melancholy
eyes. 'Let the men have their breakfast, bo'sun,' he
went on, 'and have the fire out in the galley in half
an hour at the latest, so that we can call these barges
of explosives alongside. Come along, young man. I
don't know your name. Haven't seen the captain,
to speak to, since yesterday afternoon when he rushed
off to pick up a second mate somewhere. How did he
get you?'

"Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the
friendly disposition of the other, answered him smilingly,
aware somehow that there was something marked in
this inquisitiveness, natural, after all — something anxi-
ous. His name was Powell, and he was put in the way
of this berth by Mr. Powell, the shipping master. He
blushed.

"'Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting
ready. The ship-keeper, before he went away, told
me you joined at one o'clock. I didn't sleep on board
last night. Not I. There was a time when I never
cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of
hours in the evening, even while in London, but now,
since *

278 CHANCE

"He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes
towards that youngster, that stranger. Meantime,
he was leading the way across the quarter-deck under
the poop into the long passage with the door of the
saloon at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin
did not go so far. After passing the pantry he opened
suddenly a door on the left of the passage, to Powell's
great surprise.

"'Our mess-room,' he said, entering a small cabin
painted white, bare, lighted from part of the foremost
skylight, and furnished only with a table and two settees
with movable backs. 'That surprises you? Well, it
'sn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, before.
It's only since '

"He checked himself again. 'Yes. Here we shall
feed, you and I, facing each other for the next twelve
months or more — God knows how much more! The
bo'sun keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather.'
" "He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man
whose breath is somewhat short, and the spirit (young
Powell could not help thinking) embittered by some
mysterious grievance. ,

" There was enough of the unusual there to be recog-
nized even by Powell's inexperience. The officers
kept out of the cabin against the custom of the service,
and then this sort of accent in the mate's talk. Franklin
did not seem to expect conversational ease from the
new second mate. He made several remarks about
the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. Very
awkward this thing to happen on. the very eve of
sailing.

"Collar-bone and arm broken,' he sighed. 'Sad,
very sad. Did you notice if the captain was at all
affected? Eh? Must have been.'

"Before this congested face, these globular eyes

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 279

turned yearningly upon him, young Powell (one must
keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who could
not remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with
an embarrassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of
this lucky chance coming to him, he was not in a con-
dition to notice the state of other people.

" 'I was so pleased to get a ship at last,' he murmured,
further disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in
Mr. Franklin's aspect.

'"One man's food another man's poison,' the mate
remarked. 'That holds true beyond mere victuals. I
suppose it didn't occur to you that it was a dam' poor
way for a good man to be knocked out.'

'"Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not
thought of that. He was ready to admit that it was
very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no in-
tention apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent
either. His further remarks were to the effect that
there had been a time when Captain Anthony would
have showed more than enough concern for the least
thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, there had
been a time!

"'And mind,' he went on, laying down suddenly a
half-consumed piece of bread and butter and raising his
voice, 'poor Mathews was the second man the longest
on board. I was the first. He joined a month later —
about the same time as the steward by a few days. The
bo'sun and the carpenter came the voyage after.
Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever have
thought of leaving the Ferndale unless he were a fool.
Some good men are fools. Don't know when they
are well off. I mean the best of good men; men that
you would do anything for. They go on for years,
then all of a sudden — — '

"Our young friend listened to" the mate with a queer

280 CHANCE

sense of discomfort growing on him. For it was as
though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, and putting
him into the delicate position of an unwilling eaves-
dropper. But there was in the mess-room another
listener. It was the steward, who had come in carry-
ing a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood
quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face,
long features, heavy eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache.
His body encased in a short black jacket with narrow
sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up an
agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward
suddenly, and interrupted the mate's monologue.

" 'More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping
hot. I am going to give breakfast to the saloon di-
rectly, and the cook is raking his fire out. Now's your
chance.'

"The mate who, on account of his peculiar build,
could not turn his head freely, twisted his thick trunk
slightly, and ran his black eyes in the corners towards
the steward.

'"And is the precious pair of them out?' he growled.

"The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's
cup, muttered moodily but distinctly: 'The lady wasn't
when I was laying the table.'

"Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something
hostile in this reference to the captain's wife. For of
what other person could they be speaking? The stew-
ard added with a gloomy sort of fairness: 'But she will
be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that
sort of trouble. That she doesn't.'

"'No. Not in that way,' Mr. Franklin agreed, and
then both he and the steward, after glancing at Powell —
the stranger to the ship — said nothing more.

"But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity.
Curiosity is natural to man. Of course it was not a

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 281

malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly natural, is to
be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more fre-
quently in women — especially if a woman be in ques-
tion; and that woman under a cloud, in a manner of
speaking. For under a cloud Flora de Barral was
fated to be even at sea. Yes. That sort of darkness
which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place
in the world hung over her. Yes. Even at sea!

"And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man
can struggle to get a place for himself or perish. But
a woman's part is passive, say what you like, and shuffle
the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of
energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact,
almost all women have all that — of their own kind.
But they are not made for attack. Wait they must,
I am speaking here of women who are really women.
And it's no use talking of opportunities, either, I know
that some of them do talk of it. But not the genuine
women. Those know better. Nothing can beat a true
woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a
cynical vision if I were not afraid of wounding your
chivalrous feelings — for which, by the by, women
are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows of your
kind. ..."

"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you
flying out at me for like this? I wouldn't use an ill-
sounding word about women, but what right have you
to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?"

Marlow raised a soothing hand.

" There ! There ! I take back the ill-sounding word,
with the remark, though, that cynicism seems to me a
word invented by hypocrites. But let that pass. As
to women, they know that the clamour for opportunities
/or them to become something which they cannot be is

282 CHANCE

as reasonable as if mankind at large started asking for
opportunities of winning immortality in this world, in
which death is the very condition of life. You must
understand that I am not talking here of material ex-
istence. That naturally is implied ; but you won't main-
tain that a woman who, say, enlisted for instance,
(there have been cases) has conquered her place in the
world. She has only got her living in it — which is
quite meritorious, but not quite the same thing.

"All these reflections which arise from my picking
up the thread of Flora de Barral's existence did not,
I am certain, present themselves to Mr. Powell — not
the Mr. Powell we know, taking solitary week-end
cruises in the estuary of the Thames (with mysterious
dashes into lonely creeks), but to the young Mr. Powell,
the chance second officer of the ship Ferndale, com-
manded (and for the most part owned) by Roderick
Anthony, the son of the poet — you know. A Mr.
Powell, much slenderer than our robust friend is now,
with the bloom of innocence not quite rubbed off his
smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be interested but
also to be surprised by the experience life was holding
in store for him. This would account for his remem-
bering so much of it with considerable vividness. For
instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast
on board the Ferndale, both visual and mental, were as
fresh to him as if received yesterday.

"The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise
from the inability to interpret aright the signs which
experience (a thing mysterious in itself) makes to our
understanding and emotions. For it is never more
than that. Our experience never gets into our blood
and bones. It always remains outside of us. That's
why we look with wonder at the past. And this per-
sists even when from practice and through growing

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 283

callousness of fibre we come to the point when nothing
that we meet in that rapid blinking stumble across a
fliek of sunshine — which our life is — nothing, I say,
which we run against surprises us any more. Not at
the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty
with some such exclamation: 'Well! Well! I'll be
hanged if I ever, . . . ' it is probably because this very
thing that there should be a past to look back upon,
other people's, is very astounding in itself when one
has the time, a fleeting and immense instant to think
of it . . ."

I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he
stopped of himself, his eyes fixed on vacancy, or —
perhaps — (I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a vision.
He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantel-
piece clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fullness
of the tick. If you have ever lived with a clock afflicted
with that perversity, you know how vexing it is — such
a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smil-
ing faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little.
And then I said acidly —

"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out
Fomething comic in the history of Flora de Barral?"

"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you
say? . . . Oh, I laughed— did I? But don't you
know that people laugh at absurdities that are very
far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest
books about laughter written by philosophers, psy-
chologists? There is a lot of them .

"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written
about laughter — and tears, too, for that matter," I
said impatiently.

"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that
we laugh from a sense of superiority. Therefore, ob-
serve, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, delicacy

284 CHANCE

of heart and of conduct, self -confidence; magnanimity
are laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a
man's character often puts him into difficult, cruel or
absurd situations, and makes us, the majority who are
fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel pleas-
antly superior."

"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you dis-
covered all these fine things in the story; or has Mr.
Powell discovered them to you in his artless talk? Have
you two been having good healthy laughs together?
Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?"

Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite
serious.

"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that
there was," he pursued with amusing caution. "But
there was a situation, tense enough for the signs of it to
give many surprises to Mr. Powell — neither of them
shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which
made the whole unforgettable in the detail of its prog-
ress. And the first surprise came very soon, when
the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of
engagement) — dynamite in cases and blasting powder
in barrels — taken on board, main hatch battened for
sea, cook restored to his functions in the galley, anchor
fished and the tug ahead, rounding the S'outh Foreland,
and with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple
vista of the channel, he went on the poop, on duty, it is
true, but with time to take the first freer breath in the
busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board,
who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an
insignificant remark before resuming his lounging to
and fro between the steering wheel and the binnacle.
Powell took his station modestly at the break of the
poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a
grey cap. But when, after a time, he crossed over to

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 285

the other side of the deck he discovered that it was not
the captain's head at all. He became aware of grey
hairs curling over the nape of the neck. How could he
have made that mistake? But on board ship away from
the land one does not expect to come upon a stranger.

"Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat
sunken face, with a tightly closed mouth, stared at the
distant French coast, vague like a suggestion of solid
darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light re-
flected from the level waters, themselves growing more
sombre than the sky; a stare, across which Powell
had to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, noting
its immovable stillness. His passage disturbed those
eyes no more than if he had been as immaterial as a
ghost. And this failure of his person in producing an
impression affected him strangely. Who could that,
old man be?

"He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the
pilot in a low voice. The pilot turned out to be a good-
natured specimen of his kind, condescending, senten-
tious. He had been down to his meals in the main
cabin, and had something to impart.

"'That? Queer fish— eh? Mrs. Anthony's father.
I've been introduced to him in the cabin at breakfast-
time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all his wits
about him. They take him about with them, it seems.
Don't look very happy — eh?'

"Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell
to get all hands on deck and make sail on the ship. 'I
shall be leaving you in half an hour. You'll have
plenty of time to find out all about the old gent,' he
added with a thick laugh.

"In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a
fully responsible officer, young Powell forgot the very

286 CHANCE

existence of that old man in a moment. The following
days, in the interest of getting in touch with the ship,
with the men in her, with his duties, in the rather anxi-
ous period of settling down, his curiosity slumbered;
for of course the pilot's few words had not extinguished
it.

"This settling down was made easy for him by the
friendly character of his immediate superior — the
chief mate. Powell could not defend himself from some
sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped,
with his crimson complexion and something pathetic
in the rolling of his very movable black eyes in an ap-
parently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready
to take his competency for granted.

"There can be nothing more reassuring to a young
man tackling his life's work for the first time. Mr.
Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had time to
observe the people around with friendly interest. Very
early in the beginning of the passage, he had discovered
with some amusement that the marriage of Captain
Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell
(conscious of being looked upon as something of an
outsider) referred in his mind as 'the old lot.'

"They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations,
nods of men who had seen other, better times. What
difference it could have made to the bo'sun and the
carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet
these two pulled long faces and even gave hostile glances
to the poop. The cook and the steward might have
been more directly concerned. But^the steward used
to remark on occasion, 'Oh, she gives no extra trouble,'
with a scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy kind.
He was rather a silent man with a great sense of- his
personal worth which made his speeches guarded. The
cook, a neat man with iajr side whiskers, who h»d been

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 287

only three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned.
He was even known to have inquired once or twice as
to the success of some of his dishes with the captain's
wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling
away from the ruling feeling.

"The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to under-
stand. As he let it out to Powell before the first week
of the passage was over: 'You can't expect me to be
pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I weren't
good enough to sit down to meat with that woman.'
But he hastened to add : ' Don't you think I'm blaming
the captain. He isn't a man to be found fault with.
You, Mr. Powell, are too young yet to understand such
matters.'

"Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a
conversation of that aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little
more by repeating : ' Yes ! You are too young to under-
stand these things. I don't say you haven't plenty
of sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight
better than I expected, though 1 liked your looks from
the first.'

"It was in the trade- winds, at night, under a velvety,
bespangled sky, a great multitude of stars watching the
shadows of the sea gleaming mysteriously in the wake
of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the water to
leeward was like a drowsy comment on her progress.
Mr. Powell expressed his satisfaction by a half-bashful
laugh. The mate mused on : ' And of course you haven't
known the ship as she used to be. She was more than
a home to a man. She was not like any other ship;
and Captain Anthony was not like any other master
to sail with. Neither is she now. But before one never
had a care in the world as to her — and as to him, too.
No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.'
"Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry

288 CHANCE

about even then. The serenity of the peaceful night
seemed as vast as all space and as enduring as eternity
itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain element, but no
sailor remembers this in the presence of its bewitching
power any more than a lover ever thinks of the prover-
bial inconstancy of women. And Mr. PowelL being
young, thought naively that the captain being married,
there could be no occasion for anxiety as to his condi-
tion. I suppose that to him life, perhaps not so much
his own as that of others, was something still in the
nature of a fairy-tale with a 'they lived happy ever
after' termination. We are the creatures of our light
literature much more than is generally suspected in a
world which prides itself on being scientific and prac-
tical, and in possession of incontrovertible theories.
Powell felt in that way the more because the captain
of a ship at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature, some-
thing like a prince of a fairy-tale, alone of his kind, de-
pending on nobody, not to be called to account except
by powers practically invisible and so distant, that
they might well be looked upon as supernatural for all
that the rest of the crew knows of them, as a rule.

" So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of
the mate — or rather he understood it obscurely as a
result of simple causes which did not seem to him ade-
quate. He would have dismissed all this out of his
mind with a contemptuous: 'What the devil do I
care?' if the captain's wife herself had not been so
young. To see her the first time had been some-
thing of a shock to him. He had some preconceived
ideas as to captains' wives which, while he did not be-
lieve the testimony of his eyes, made him open them
very wide. He had stared till the captain's wife no-
ticed it plainly and turned her face away. Captain's
voie! That girl covered with rugs in a long chair.

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 289

Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never
occurred to him that a captain's wife could be anything
but a woman to be described as stout or thin, as jolly
or crabbed, but always mature, and even, in comparison
with his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a
sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case
of abduction or something as surprising as that. You
understand that nothing is more disturbing than the
upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us arranges
the world according to his own notion of the fitness of
things. To behold a girl where your average mediocre
imagination had placed a comparatively old womari
may easily become one of the strongest shocks . . ."

Marlow paused, smiling to himself.

"Powell remained impressed after all these years by
the very recollection," he continued in a voice, amused
perhaps but not mocking. "He said to me only the
other day with something like the first awe of that dis-
covery lingering in his tone — he said to me: 'Why, she
seemed so young, so girlish, that I looked round for some
woman who would be the captain's wife, though of
course I knew there was no other woman on board that
voyage.' The voyage before, it seems, there had been
the steward's wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but
she was not taken that time for some reason he didn't
know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been
the captain's wife he would have referred to her men-
tally as a kid, he said. I suppose there must be a sort
of divinity hedging in a captain's wife (however in-
credible) which prevented him applying to her that
contemptuous definition in the secret of his thoughts.

"I asked him when this had happened; and he told
me that it was three days after parting from the tug,
just outside the channel — to be precise. A head wind
had set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had

290 CHANCE

come up to leeward of the poop, still feeling very much
of a stranger, and an untried officer, at six in the evening
to take his watch. To see her was quite as unex-
pected as seeing a vision. When she turned away her
head he recollected himself and dropped his eyes. What
he could see then was only, close to the long chair on
which she reclined, a pair of long, thin legs ending in
black cloth boots tucked in close to the skylight seat.
Whence he concluded that the 'old gentleman,' who
wore a grey cap like the captain's, was sitting by her
— his daughter. In his first astonishment he had stopped
dead short, with the consequence that now he felt very
much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But
he couldn't very well turn tail and bolt off the poop.
He had come here on duty. So, still with downcast
eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he got
as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was
hidden from him by the back of her deck-chair; but he
had the view of the owner of the thin, aged legs seated
on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin com-
pressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse
grey locks escaping from under the tweed cap, and curl-
ing slightly on the collar of the coat. He leaned for-
ward a little over Mrs. Anthony, but they were not
talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy
hurried gait on the other side of the poop from end to
end, gazed straight before him. Young Powell might
have thought that his captain was not aware of his
presence either. However, he knew better, and for
that reason spent a most uncomfortable hour motion-
less by the compass before his captain stopped in his
swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made
some remark to him about the weather in a low voice.
Before Powell, who was startled, could find a word of
answer, the captain swung off again on his endless tramp

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 291

with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence
dwelt over that poop like an evil spell. The captain
walked up and down looking straight before him, the
helmsman steered, looking upwards at the sails, the
old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter—
and Mr. Powell confessed to me that he didn't know
where to look, feeling as though he had blundered
in where he had no business — which was absurd. At last
he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in
spirit, inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than
he should have been by the chilly dusk falling on the
muddy green sea of the soundings from a smoothly
clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste,
and the ship, hauled up so close as to check her way,
seemed +*> progress by languid fits and starts against
the short seas which swept along her sides with a snarl-
ing sound.

"Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest
evening aspect of the sea he had ever seen. He was
glad when the other occupants of the poop left it at the
sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden
swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not
even looking once towards his wife and his wife's
father. Those two got up and moved towards th«5
companion, the old gent very erect, his thin locks stir-
ring gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying
the rugs over his arm. The girl who was Mrs. Anthony
went down first. The murky twilight had settled in
deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in
passing. He thought that she was very pale. Cold
perhaps. The old gent stopped a moment, thin and
stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was
low but distinct enough, and without any particular
accent — not even of inquiry — he said —

"'You are the new second officer, I believe.'

292 CHANCE

"'Mr. Powell answered in the affirmatire, wondering
if this was a friendly overture. He had noticed that
Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look as though,
he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The
captain's wife had disappeared then down the com-
panion stairs. Mr. Smith said 'Ah!' and waited a
little longer to put another question in his incurious
voice.

'"And did you know the man who was here before
you?'

"'No,' said young Powell, 'I didn't know anybody
belonging to this ship before I joined.'

"'He was much older than you. Twice your age.
Perhaps more. His hair was iron grey. Yes. Cer-
tainly more.'

"The low, repressed voice paused, but the old
man did not move away. He added: 'Isn't it un-
usual?'

"Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being en-
gaged in conversation, but also by its character. It
might have been the suggestion of the word uttered
by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment
that he became aware of something unusual not only
in this encounter but generally around him, about
everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, with
short flashes of foam bursting out here and there
in the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe, sea
sheltering a man from all passions, except its own anger,
seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to wind^
ward where the already effaced horizon traced no re-
assuring limit to the eye. In the expiring, diffused
twilight, and before the clouded night dropped its
mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made
visible — almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He
felt it in the sudden sense of his isolation; the trust-

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 293

worthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance re-
duced to a speck, to something almost undistinguishable,
the mere support for the soles of his two feet before that
unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate
in a darkening universe.

"It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the
question. He repeated slowly: 'Unusual. . . . Oh,
you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a ship.
I don't know. There are a good many of us who don't,
get on. He didn't get on, I suppose.'

"The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of
listening with acute attention.

"And now he has been taken to the hospital,' he
said.

"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony
saying so in the shipping office.'

" 'Possibly about to die,' went on the old man, in his
careful deliberate tone. 'And perhaps glad enough to
die.'

"Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the
suggestion, which sounded confidential and blood- 1
curdling in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not
very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the ac-
cident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact,
indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh
of a conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under
the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but
lingered.

" ' What I said was not meant seriously,' he murmured
with that strange air of fearing to be overheard. 'Not
in this case. I know the man.'

" The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this
conversation, had sharpened the perceptions of the un-
sophisticated second officer of the Ferndale. He was
alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if this

294 CHANCE

'I know the man' should have been followed by a 'he
was no friend of mine.' But after the shortest possible
break the old gentleman continued to murmur distinctly,
and evenly —

'"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless
when you have gone through as many years as I have,
you will understand how an event putting an end to
one's existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of
course there are stupid accidents. And even then one
needn't be very angry. What is it to be deprived of
life? It's soon done. But what would you think of
the feelings of a man who should have had his life
stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!'

"He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough
for the astonished Powell to stammer out an indistinct:
'What do you mean? I don't understand.' Then,
with a low 'Good -night' glided a few steps, and sank
through the shadow of the companion into the lamp-
light below which did not reach higher than the turn of
the staircase.

"The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole
person left a strong uneasiness in the mind of Mr.
Powell. He started walking the poop in great mental
confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk
and no mistake. And this cautious low tone as though
he were watched by someone was more than funny.
The young second officer hesitated to break the estab-
lished rule of every ship's discipline; but at last could
not resist the temptation of getting hold of some other
human being, and spoke to the man at the wheel.

"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to
me?'

"No, sir,' answered the sailor quietly. Then, en-
couraged by this evidence of laxity in his officer, made
bold to add, 'A queer fish, sir.' This was tentative,

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 295

and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying
anything, he ventured further. 'They are more like
passengers. One sees some queer passengers.'

"'Who are like passengers?' asked Powell gruffly,

"'Why, these two, sir.'

CHAPTER THREE

DEVOTED SERVANTS — AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE

"Young Powell thought to himself: 'The men, too,
are noticing it.' Indeed, the captain's behaviour to
his wife and to his wife's father was noticeable enough.
It was as if they had been a pair of not very congenial
passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that.
The captain might have been put out by something.

"When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr.
Powell made a remark to that effect. For his curiosity
was aroused.

! "The mate grumbled 'Seems to you? . . . Put
out? . . . eh?' He buttoned his thick jacket up
to the throat, and only then added a gloomy 'Aye,
likely enough,' which discouraged further conversation.
But no encouragement would have induced the newly
joined second mate to enter the way of confidences.
His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did not
know why it was he had resolved to keep his own coun-
sel as to his colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity
did not slumber. Some time afterwards, again at the
relief of watches, in the course of a little talk, he men-
tioned Mrs. Anthony's father quite casually, and tried
to find out from the mate who he was.

'"It would take a clever man to find that out, as
things are on board now,' Mr. Franklin said, unexpect-
edly communicative. ' The first I saw of him was when
she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morn-
ing about half-past eleven. The captain had come on

486 r

DEVOTED SERVANTS 297

board early, and was down in the cabin that had been
fitted out for him. Did I tell you that if you want the
captain for anything you must stamp on the port side
of the deck? That's so. This ship is not only unlike
what she used to be, but she is like no other ship,
anyhow. Did you ever hear of the captain's room
being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins
have been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A
gang of people from some tip-top West-End house were
fussing here on board with hangings and furniture for
a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of
course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the
poor captain hangs out to port on a couch, so that in
case we want him on deck at night, Mrs. Anthony
should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman
who marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come
to sea should have no blamed jumpiness about her, I
say. But never mind. Directly the old cab pointed
round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the
captain that his lady was coming aboard. He answered
me, but as I didn't see him coming, I went down the gang-
way myself to help her alight. She jumps out excitedly
without touching my arm, or as much as saying 'thank
you' or 'good morning' or anything, turns back to the
cab, and then that old joker comes out slowly. I hadn't
noticed him inside. I hadn't expected to see anybody.
It gave me a start. She says: 'My father — Mr.
Franklin.' He was staring at me like an owl. 'How
do you do, sir?' says I. Both of them looked funny.
It was as if something had happened to them on the
way. Neither of them moved, and I stood by waiting.
The captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw
him at the side looking over, and then he disappeared;
on the way to meet them on shore, I expected. But
he just went down below again. So. not seeing him,

298 CHANCE

I said: 'Let me help you on board, sir.* 'On board!'
says he in a silly fashion. ' On board ! ' ' It's not a very
good ladder, but it's quite firm,' says I, as he seemed
to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a broken-down
old man, either. You can see yourself what he is.
Straight as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But
he made no move, and I began to feel foolish. Then
she comes forward. 'Oh! Thank you, Mr. Franklin.
I'll help my father up.' Flabbergasted me — to be
choked off like this. Pushed in between him and me
without as much as a look my way. So of course I
dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would
have gone up on board at once and left them on the
quay to come up or stay there till next week, only they
were blocking the way. I couldn't very well shove
them on one side. Devil only knows what was up be-
tween them. There she was, pale as death, talking
to him very fast. He got as red as a turkey-cock-
dash me if he didn't. A bad-tempered old bloke, I
can tell you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I
couldn't hear what she was saying to him, but she put
force enough into it to shake her. It seemed — it
seemed, mind! — that he didn't want to go on board.
Of course it couldn't have been that. I know better.
Well, she took him by the arm, above the elbow, as if
to lead him or push him rather. I was standing not
quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away?
I was anxious to get back on board as soon as they
would let me. I didn't want to overhear her blamed
whispering either. But I couldn't stay there for ever,
so I made a move to get past them if I could. And that's
how I heard a few words. It was the old chap — some-
thing nasty about being 'under the heel' of somebody
or other. Then he says, 'I don't want this sacrifice.'
What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel — of that

DEVOTED SERVANTS 299

i
I am certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees
me pretty close to them. I don't know what she found
to say into his ear, but he gave way suddenly. He
looked round at me too, and they went up together so
quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I
was only in time to see the inner door of the passage
close after them. Queer — eh? But if it were only
queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in new
trunks came on board in the afternoon. We undocked
at midnight. And may I be hanged if I know who
or what he was or is. I haven't been able to find out.
No, I don't know. He may have been anything. All I
know is that once, years ago when I went to see the
Derby with a friend, I saw a pea-and-thimble chap who
looked just like that old mystery father out of a cab.'
"All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resent-
ful and melancholy voice, with pauses, to the gentle
murmur of the sea. It was for him a bitter sort of
pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a new-comer, to
whom he could repeat all these matters of grief and
suspicion talked over endlessly by the band of Captain
Anthony's faithful subordinates. It was evidently so
refreshing to his worried spirit that it made him for-
get the advisability of a little caution with a complete
stranger. But really with Mr. Powell there was no
danger. Amused, at first, at these plaints, he pro-
voked them for fun. Afterwards, turning them over
in his mind, he became impressed; and as the impression
grew stronger with the days his resolution to keep it to
himself grew stronger too.

"What made it all the easier to keep — I mean the
resolution — was that Powell's sentiment of amused
surprise at what struck him at first as mere absurdity
was not unmingled with indignation. And his years

300 CHANCE

were too few, his position too novel, his reliance on his
own opinion not yet firm enough to allow him to ex-
press it with any effect. And then — what would have
been the use, anyhow — and where was the necessity?

"But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same
time, occupied his imagination. The solitude of the
sea intensifies the thoughts and the facts of one's
experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the
world, as the ship which carries one always remains
the centre figure of the round horizon. He viewed the
apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the saturnine, heavy-
eyed steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret
form of lunacy which poisoned their lives. But he
did not give them his sympathy on that account.
No. That strange affliction awakened in him a sort
of suspicious wonder.

"Once — and it was at night again; for the officers of
the Ferndale keeping watch and watch as was custom-
ary in those days, had but few occasions for intercourse
—once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a quaintly bulky
figure under the stars, the usual witnesses of his out-
pourings, asked him with an abruptness which was not
callous, but in his simple way —

"'I believe you have no parents living?'

Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother
at a very early age.

"'My mother is still alive,' declared Mr. Franklin
in a tone which suggested that he was gratified by the
fact. 'The old lady is lasting well. Of course she's
got to be made comfortable. A woman must be looked
after, and, if it comes to that, I say, give me a mother.
I dare say if she had not lasted it out so well I might
have gone and got married. I don't know, though.
We sailors haven't got much time to look about us to
any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady was there I

DEVOTED SERVANTS 301

haven't, 1 may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not
that I wasn't partial to female society in my time,'
he added with a pathetic intonation, while the whites
of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the clear
night sky. ' Very partial, I may say.'

"Mr. Powell was amused; and as thesf communica-
tions took place only when the mate was relieved off
duty he had no serious objection to them. The mate's
presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even
more of his watch on deck pass away. If his senior
did not mind losing some of his rest it was not Mr.
Powell's affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His
intention was not to boast of his filial piety.

"Of course I mean respectable female society,' he
explained. 'The other sort is neither here nor there.
I blame no man's conduct, but a well-brought-up young
fellow like you knows that there's precious little fun
to be got out of it.' He fetched a deep sigh. 'I wish
Captain Anthony's mother had been a lasting sort like
my old lady. He would have had to look after her and
he would have done it well. Captain Anthony is a
proper man. And it would have saved him from the
most f oolish '

"He did not finish the phrase which certainly was
turning bitter in his mouth. Mr. Powell thought to
himself: 'There he goes again.' He laughed a little.

"I don't understand why you are so hard on the
captain, Mr. Franklin. I thought you were a great
friend of his.'

"Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was npt hard
on the captain. Nothing was further from his thoughts.
Friend ! Of course he was a good friend and a faithful
servant. He begged Powell to understand that if
Captain Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old
Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick were good to the captain,

30* CHANCE

he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to love Old
Nick for the captain's sake. That was so. On the
other hand, if a saint, an angel with white wings came
along and '

"He broke off short again as if his own vehemence
had frightened him. Then in his strained pathetic
voice (which he had never raised) he observed that it
was no use talking. Anybody could see that the man
was changed.

"'As to that,' said young Powell, 'it is impossible
for me to judge.'

"'Good Lord"!' whispered the mate. 'An educated,
clever young fellow like you with a pair of eyes on him
and some sense too! Is that how a happy man looks?
Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and I
dare you to say "Yes!"'

"Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He
did not know what to think of the mate's view. Still,
it seemed as if it had opened his understanding in
a measure. He conceded that the captain did not look
very well.

"'Not very well,' repeated the mate mournfully.
'Do you think a man with a face like that can hope to
live his life out? You haven't knocked about long in
this world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in
three or four ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen
a ship-master walking his own deck as if he did not
know what he had underfoot? Have you? Dam'me
if I don't think that he forgets where he is. Of course
he can be no other than a prime seaman; but it's lucky,
all the same, he has me on board. I know by this time
what he wants done without being told. Do you
know that I have had no order given me since we left
port? Do you know that he has never once opened
his lips to me unless I spoke to him first? I! His chief

DEVOTED SERVANTS 303

officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom he
had no cross word — not once in all that time. Aye.
Not a cross look even. True that when I do make
him speak to me, there is his dear old self, the quick
eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old
Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes, voice, every-
thing's miles away. And for all that I take good care
never to address him when the poop isn't clear. Yes!
Only we two and nothing but the sea with us. You
think it would be all right; the only chief mate he ever
had — Mr. Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there — when
anything went wrong the first word you would hear
about the decks was "Franklin!''— I am thirteen years
older than he is — you would think it would be all right,
wouldn't you? Only we two on this poop on which
we saw each other first — he a young master — told
me that he thought I would suit him very well — we two,
and thirty-one days out at sea, and it's no good! It's
like talking to a man standing on shore. I can't get
him back. I can't get at him. I feel sometimes as if
I must shake him by the arm: "Wake up! Wake up!
You are wanted, sir . . . ! "

"Young Powell recognized the expression of a true
sentiment, a thing so rare in this world where there are
so many mutes and so many excellent reasons even at
sea for an articulate man not to give himself away,
that he felt something like respect for this outburst.
It was not loud. The grotesque squat shape, with the
knob of the head as if rammed down between the square
shoulders by a blow from a club, moved vaguely in a
circumscribed space limited by' the two harness-casks
lashed to the front rail of the poop, without gestures,
hands in the pockets of the jacket, elbows pressed
closely to its side; and the voice without resonance,
passed from anger to dismay and back again without

304 CHANCE

a single louder word in the hurried delivery, interrupted
only by slight gasps for air as if the speaker were being
choked by the suppressed passion of his grief.

"Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was
by no means carried away. And just as he thought
that it was all over, the other, fidgeting in the darkness,
was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very
loud in the silence of the ship and the great empty
peace of the sea.

"'They have done something to him! What is it?
What can it be? Can't you guess? Don't you know? '

'"Good heavens!' Young Powell was astounded
on discovering that this was an appeal addressed to
him. 'How on earth can I know?'

"'You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . .
I've seen you talking to her more than a dozen
times.'

"Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, re-
marked in a disdainful tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes
were not black.

'"I wish to God she had never set them on the cap-
tain, whatever colour they are,' retorted Franklin.
'She and that old chap with the scraped jaws who sits
over her and stares down at her dead-white face with
his yellow eyes — confound them! Perhaps you will
tell us that his eyes are not yellow?'

"Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's
eyes, made a vague gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it
was all one to him.

"The mate murmured to himself: 'No. He can't
know. No! No more than a baby. It would take
an older head.'

"'I don't even understand what you mean,' observed
Mr. Powell coldly.

"'And even the best head would be puzzl»,d by such-

DEVOTED SERVANTS 305

devil-work,' the mate continued, muttering. 'Well, I
have heard tell of women doing for a man in one way or
another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring
their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . .
It's something I can't understand. But I can watch.
Let them look out — I say ! '

"His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility,
could not express dejection. He was very tired sud-
denly; he dragged his feet going off the poop. Before
he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below sacri-
ficed, he addressed himself once more to our young man
who stood abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unrecep-
tive mood expressed by silence and immobility. He
did not regret, he said, having spoken openly on this
very serious matter. i

"I don't know about its seriousness, sir,' was Mr.
Powell's frank answer. 'But if you think you have
been telling me something very new you are mistaken.
You can't keep that matter out of your speeches. It's
the sort of thing I've been hearing more or less ever
since I came on board.'

"Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to
speak offensively. He had instincts of wisdom; he
felt that this was a serious affair, for it had nothing to
do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy
for himself in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not
take offence. To Mr. Powell's truthful statement he
answered with equal truth and simplicity that it was
very likely, very likely. With a thing like that (next
door to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, the
wonder was that he could think of anything else. The
poor man must have found in the restlessness of his
thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an active
contest with some power of evil; for his last words as
he went lingeringly down the poop ladder expressed

506 CHANCE

the quaint hope that he would get him, Powell, 'on
our side yet.'

"Mr. Powell — just imagine a straightforward youngr
ster assailed in this fashion on the high seas — answered
merely by an embarrassed and uneasy laugh which
reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The
apoplectic mate, already half-way down, went up again
three steps of the poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper
young fellow, the mate expected, wouldn't stand by
and see a man, a good sailor and his own skipper, in
trouble without taking his part against a couple of shore
people who Mr. Powell interrupted him im-
patiently, asking what was the trouble?

"'What is it you are hinting at?' he cried with an
inexplicable irritation.

"'I don't like to think of him all alone down there
with these two,' Franklin whispered impressively.
'Upon my word I don't. God only knows what may
be going on there. . . . Don't laugh. ... It
was bad enough last voyage when Mrs. Brown had a
cabin aft; but now it's worse. It frightens me. I
can't sleep sometimes for thinking of him all alone there,
shut off from us all.'

"Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must
understand that shortly after his visit to the Fyne
cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony had got
an offer to go to the Western Islands, and bring home
the cargo of some ship which, damaged in a collision or
a stranding, took refuge in St. Michael, and was con-
demned there. Roderick Anthony had connections
which would put such paying jobs in his way. So
Flora de Barral had but a five months' voyage, a mere
excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. And Anthony,
clearly trying to be most attentive, had induced this
Mrs. Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, to come

DEVOTED SERVANTS 307

along as maid to his bride. But for some reason or
other this arrangement was not continued. And the
mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and forebodings,
regretted it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no
longer on board — as a sort of representative of Captain
Anthony's faithful servants, to watch quietly what
went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had
closed to their vigilance. That had been excellent.
For she was a dependable woman.

"Powell did not detect any particular excellence in
what seemed a spying employment. But in his sim-
plicity he said that he should have thought Mrs.
Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another
woman on board. He was thinking of the white-faced
girlish personality which it seemed to him ought to have
been cared for. The innocent young man always looked
upon the girl as immature; something of a child yet.

"'She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out.
She didn't want anybody around the cabin. Mrs.
Brown is certain of it. She told her husband so. You
ask the steward and hear what he has to say about it.
That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who
knew her place. But no. Out she must go. For
no fault, mind you. The captain was ashamed to send
her away. But that wife of his — aye, the precious
pair of them have got hold of him. I can't speak to
him for a minute on the poop without that thimble-
rigging coon coming gliding up. I'll tell you what.
I overheard once — God knows I didn't try to — only
he forgot I was on the other side of the skylight with
my sextant — I overheard him — you know how he sits
hanging over her chair and talking away without
properly opening his mouth — yes I caught the word
right enough. He was alluding to the captain as
"the jailer." The jail ...!''

308 CHANCE

"Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A
silence reigned for a long time and the slight, very
gentle rolling of the ship slipping before the N.E. trade-
wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep
the suspicions of men who trust themselves to the sea.

"A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's
voice asking dismally if that was the way one would
speak of a man to whom one wished well? No better
proof of something wrong was needed. Therefore he
hoped, as he vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would
be on their side. And this time Mr. Powell did not
answer this hope with an embarrassed laugh.

"That young officer was more and more surprised
at the nature of the incongruous revelations coming to
him in the surroundings and in the atmosphere of the
open sea. It is difficult for us to understand the extent,
the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his inex-
perience, for us who didn't go to sea out of a small pri-
vate school at the age of fourteen years and nine months.
Leaning on his elbow in the mizzen rigging and so still
that the helmsman over there at the other end of the
poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him
of being criminally asleep on duty, he tried to 'get
hold of that thing' by some side which would fit in
with his simple notions of psychology. 'What the
deuce are they worrying about?' he asked himself in a
dazed and contemptuous impatience. But all the
same, 'jailer' was a funny name to give a man; unkind,
unfriendly, nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was
guilty in that matter because, the truth must be told,
he had been to a certain extent sensible of having been
noticed in a quiet manner by the father of Mrs. Anthony.
Youth appreciates that sort of recognition which is the
subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith
seized opportunities to approach him on deck. His

DEVOTED SERVANTS 309

remarks were sometimes weird and enigmatical. He
was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that
to calling his son-in-law (whom he never approached
on deck) nasty names behind his back was a long step.

"And Mr. Powell marvelled. ..."

"While he was telling me all this" — Marlow changed
his tone — "I marvelled even more. It was as if mis-
fortune marked its victims on the forehead for the
dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of num-
bers. Two men may behave like a crowd, three cer-
tainly will when their emotions are engaged. It was
as if the forehead of Flora de Barral were marked. Was
the girl born to be a victim; to be always disliked and
crushed as if she were too fine for this world? Or too
luckless — since that also is often counted as sin.

"Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the
girl than Mr. Powell — if only her true name; and more
of Captain Anthony — if only the fact that he was the
son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and
autocratic temperament. Yes, I know their joint
stories which Mr. Powell did not know. The chapter
in it he was opening to me, the sea-chapter, with such
new personages as the sentimental and apoplectic
chief-mate and the morose steward, however astounding
to him in its detached condition was much more so
to me as a member of a series, following the chapter
outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played
my part. In view of her declarations and my sage
remarks it was very unexpected. She had meant
well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain
Anthony — as far as I could gather from little Fyne
— had meant well. As far as such lofty words may be
applied to the obscure personages of this story, we were
all filled with the noblest sentiments and intentions.
The sea was there to give them the shelter of its solitude

310 CHANCE

free from the earth's petty suggestions. I could well
marvel in myself, as to what had happened.

"I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the
smile of which I was guilty at that moment. The light
in the cabin of his little cutter was dim. And the smile
was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl's life had
presented itself to me as a tfagi-comical adventure,
the saddest thing on earth, slipping between frank
laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the saddest facts
and the most common, and, being common, perhaps
the most worthy of our unreserved pity.

"The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but
not of abstraction. Nothing will serve for its under-
standing but the evidence of rational linking up of
characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de
Barral, in the light of my memories I was certain that
she at least must have been passive; for that is of neces-
sity the part of women, this waiting on fate which some
of them, and not the most intelligent^ cover up by the
vain appearances of agitation. Flora de Barral was
not exceptionally intelligent but she was thoroughly
feminine. She would be passive (and that does not
mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where the mere
fact of being a woman was enough to give her an occult
and supreme significance. And she would be enduring,
which is the essence of woman's visible, tangible power.
Of that I was certain. Had she not endured already?
Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait
for us mortals, even at the very source of our strength,
that one may die of too much endurance as well as of
too little of it.

"Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful
also of my first view of her — toying or perhaps commun-
ing in earnest with the possibilities of a precipice. But
.1 did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what hadhappenesi

DEVOTED SERVANTS 311

to Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his
own way, feeling that no matter what strange facts
he would have to disclose, I was certain to know much
more of them than he ever did know or could possibly
guess. . . ."

Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed
uncertain as though he had advanced something be-
yond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. "You
understand?" he asked.

"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the
psychological wilderness. This is like one of those
Redskin stories where the noble savages carry off a
girl and the honest backwoodsman with his incompar-
able knowledge follows the track and reads the signs
of her fate in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a
trinket dropped by the way. I have always liked such
stories. Go on."

Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is
not exactly a story for boys," he said. "I go on then.
The sign, as you call it, was not very plentiful but very
much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at
a certain moment I felt bound to tell him), when he
heard that I had known Mrs. Anthony before her mar-
riage, that, to a certain extent, I was her confidant . . .
For you can't deny that to a certain extent . . . Well,
let us say that I had a look in. ... A young
girl, you know, is something like a temple. You pass
by and wonder what mysterious rites are going on in
there, what prayers, what visions? The privileged
man, the lover, the husband, who are given the key
of the sanctuary do not always know how to use it.
For myself, without claim, without merit, simply by
chance I had been allowed to look through the half-
opened door and I had seen the saddest possible desecra-
tion, the withered brightness of youth, a spirit neither

312 CHANCE

made cringing nor yet dulled but as if bewildered in
quivering hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; self-
confidence destroyed and, instead, a resigned reckless-
ness, a mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost
naive) — before the material and moral difficulties of
the situation. The passive anguish of the luckless!

"I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet?
Ill-luck which is like the hate of invisible powers inter-
preted, made sensible and injurious by the actions of
men?

"Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened
his eyes at my statement. But he was full of his re-
called experiences on board the Ferndale, and the
strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard
simply because his name was also the name of a shipping
master, kept him in a state of wonder which made
other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very sur-
prising after all.

"This astonishing occurrence was so present to his
mind that he always felt as though he were there under
false pretences. And this feeling was so uncomfortable
that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring
aloofness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean
breast of it. I imagine that his youth stood in good
stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth is a power.
Even Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it,
as if it refreshed him to see something untouched, un-
scarred, unhardened by suffering. Or perhaps the
very novelty of that face, on board a ship where he
had seen the same faces for years, attracted his atten-
tion.

"Whether one day he dropped a word to his new
second officer or only looked at him I don't know; but
Mr. Poweii seized the opportunity N whatever it was.
The captain who had started and stopped in his ever-

DEVOTED SERVANTS S13

lasting rapid walk smoothed his brow very soon, heard
him to the end and then laughed a little.

"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must
put me right as to this.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'It doesn't matter how you came on board,' said
Anthony. And then showing that perhaps he was not
so utterly absent from his ship as Franklin supposed:
' That's all right. You seem to be getting on very well
with everybody,' he said in his curt hurried tone, as
if talking hurt him, and his eyes already straying over
the sea as usual.

"'Yes, sir.'

"Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face
to which that haggard expression was returning, he
had the impulse, from some confused friendly feeling;,
to add: 'I am very happy on board here, sir.'

" The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed
Mr. Powell and made him even step back a little. The
captain looked as though he had forgotten the meaning
of the word.

"'You — what? Oh yes . . . You ... of
course . . . Happy. Why not?'

"This was merely muttered; and next moment An
thony was off on his headlong tramp, his eyes turned
to the sea away from his ship.

"A sailor indeed looks generally into the great dis-
tances, but in Captain Anthony's case there was — as
Powell expressed it — something particular, something
purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation.
It was very marked once one had become aware of it.
Before, one felt only a pronounced strangeness. Not
that the captain — Powell was careful to explain —
didn't see things as a ship-master should. The proof
of it was that on that very occasion he desired him

314 CHANCE

suddenly, after a period of silent pacing, to have all
the staysails sheets eased off, and he was going on with
some other remarks on the subject of these staysails
when Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged
from the companion. She established herself in her
chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. Thereupon
the captain cut short whatever he was going to say,
and in a little while went down below.

"I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife
never conversed on deck. He said no — or at any rate
they never exchanged more than a couple of words.
There was some constraint between them. For in-
stance, on that very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony
came out they did look at each other; the captain's
eyes indeed followed her till she' sat down; but he did
not speak to her; he did not approach her; and after-
wards left the deck without turning his head her way
after this first silent exchange of glances.

"I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain
being out of the way. 'I went over and talked to
Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be very
dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the
ship.'

"'The father was there of course?'

"'Always,' said Powell. 'He was always there
sitting on the skylight, as if he were keeping watch
over her. And I think,' he added, 'that he was worry-
ing her. Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs.
Anthony was always very quiet and always ready to
look one straight in the face.'

"'You talked together a lot?' I pursued my inquiries.

"'She mostly let me talk to her,' confessed Mr.
Powell. 'I don't know that she was very much in-
terested—but still she let me. She never cut me
short,'

JJUVUXED SJDKVAJNTS 315

"All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora
Anthony, nee de Barral. She was the only human
being younger than himself on board that ship, since the
Ferndale carried no boys and was manned by a full
crew of able seamen. Yes! their youth had created
a sort of bond between them. Mr. Powell's open
countenance must have appeared to her distinctly
pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or even
inimical faces she saw around her. With the warm
generosity of his age young Powell was on her side, as it
were, even before he knew that there were sides to be
taken on board that ship, and what this taking sides
Was about. There was a girl. A nice girl. He asked
himself no questions. Flora de Barral was not so
much younger in years than himself; but for some rea-
son, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a
captain's wife, he could not regard her otherwise but as
an extremely youthful creature. At the same time,
apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him
the supremacy a woman's earlier maturity gives her
over a young man of hef own age. As a matter of
fact we can see that, without ever having more than
half an hour's consecutive conversation together, and
the distances duly preserved, these two were becoming
friends — under the eye of the old man, I suppose.

"How he first got in touch with his captain's wife
Powell relates in this way. It was long before his mem-
orable conversation with the mate and shortly after
getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather;
dead head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the Ferndale
under reduced sail was stretching close-hauled across
the track of the homeward-bound ships,' just moving
through the water and no more, since there was no
object in pressing her and the weather looked threaten-
ing. About ten o'clock at night he was alone on the

316 CHANCE

poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the weather fail
and staring to windward, when amongst the white,
breaking seas, under the black sky, he made out the
lights of a ship. He watched them for some time. She
was running dead before the wind, of course. She will
pass jolly close — he said to himself; and then suddenly
he felt a great mistrust of that approaching ship. She's
heading straight for us — he thought. It was not his
business to get out of the way. On the contrary.
And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty
tons of dynamite in the body of the Ferndale; not the
sort of cargo one thinks of with equanimity in connexion
with a threatened collision. He gazed at the two small
lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry noise
of the seas. They fascinated him till their plainness
to his sight gave him a conviction that there was danger
there. He knew in his mind what to do in emergency
but very properly he felt that he must call the captain
at once.

"He crossed the deck in one bound, By the im-
memorial custom and usage of the sea the captain's
room is on the starboard side. You would just as soon
expect your captain to have his nose at the back of his
head as to have his stateroom on the port side of the
ship. Powell forgot all about the direction on that
point given him by the chief. He flew over as I said,
stamped with his foot and then putting his face to
the cowl of the big ventilator shouted down there:
'Please come on deck, sir,' in a voice which was not
trembling or scared but which we may call fairly ex-
pressive. There could not be a mistake as to the ur-
gence of the call. But instead of the expected alert
'All right!' and the sound of a rush down there, he
heard only a faint exclamation — then silence.

"Think of his astonishment! He remained there,

DEVOTED SERVANTS 317

his ear in the cowl of the ventilator, his eyes fastened on
those menacing sidelights dancing on the gusts of wind
which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as
though he had waited an hour but it was something
much less than a minute before he fairly bellowed into
the wide tube 'Captain Anthony!' An agitated 'What
is it?' was what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony's
voice, light rapid footsteps. . . . Why didn't she
try to wake him up? 'I want the captain, ' he shouted,
then gave it up, making a dash at the companion where
a blue light was kept, resolved to act for himself.

"On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face
lighted up by the binnacle lamps was calm. He said
rapidly to him : ' Stand by to spin that helm up at the
first word.' The answer 'Aye, aye, sir,' was delivered
in a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell, after a shout for
the watch on deck to 'lay aft,' ran to the ship's side
and struck the blue light on the rail.

"A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that
came. The light (perhaps affected by damp) had
failed to ignite. The time of all these various acts
must be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to
me that at this failure he experienced a paralysis of
thought, of voice, of limbs. The unexpectedness of
this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It was
the only thing for which his imagination was not pre-
pared. It was knocked clean over. When it got up
it was with the suggestion that he must do something
at once or there would be a broadside smash accom-
panied by the explosion of dynamite, in which both
ships would be blown up and every soul on board of
them would vanish off the earth in an enormous flame
and uproar.

"He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same
moment, before he could open his mouth or stir a limb

318 CHANCE

to ward off the vision, a voice very near his ear, the
measured voice of Captain Anthony, said: 'Wouldn't
light — eh? Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up.'

"The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released
with great force. He jumped. The flare-up was kept
inside the companion with a box of matches ready to
hand. Almost before he knew he had moved he was
diving under the companion slide. ' He got hold of the
can in the dark and tried to strike a light. But he had
to press the flareholder to his breast with one arm, his
fingers were damp and stiff, his hands trembled a little.
One match broke. Another went out. In its flame
he saw the colourless face of Mrs. Anthony a little
below him, standing on the cabin stairs. Her eyes
which were very close to his (he was in a crouching
posture on the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the
vanishing light. On deck the captain's voice was heard
sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: 'You had better
look sharp, if you want to be in time.'

""Let me have the box,' said Mrs. Anthony in a
hurried and familiar whisper which sounded amused as
if they had been a couple of children up to some lark
behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed
to him very natural, and without ceremony —

"'Here you are. Catch hold.'

"Their hands touched in the dark and she took the
box while he held the paraffin-soaked torch in its iron
holder. He thought of warning her: 'Look out for'
yourself.' But before he had the time to finish the-
sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and
he saw her throw herself back with an arm across her
face. 'Hallo,' he exclaimed; only he could not stop
a moment to ask if she was hurt. He bolted out of the
companion straight into his captain who took the flare
from him and held it high ahoye his head.

DEVOTED SERVANTS 319

" The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an
angry swaying glare mingled with moving shadows
over the poop, lighting up the concave surfaces of the
sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails.
And young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a
catch in his breath.

"The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did
not seem to be moving onwards but only to grow more
distinct right abeam, staring at the Ferndale with one
green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if
they belonged to the restless head of some invisible
monster ambushed in the night amongst the waves. A
moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, suddenly,
the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape
of a mountain shut its green eye without as much as a
preparatory wink.

"Mr. Powell drew a free breath. 'All right now,'
said Captain Anthony in a quiet undertone. He gave
the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to watch
the passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly
with its parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on the
wings of a sweeping wind. Her very form could be
distinguished now black and elongated amongst the
hissing patches of foam bursting along her path.

"As is always the case with a ship running before
wind and sea she did riot seem to an onlooker to move
very fast; but to be progressing indolently in long, leis-
urely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking
waves. It was only when actually passing the stern
within easy hail of the Ferndale that her headlong
speed became apparent to the eye. With the red light
shut off and soaring like an immense shadow on the
crest of a wave she was lost to view in one great, forward
swing, melting into the Iightless space.

'"Close shave,' said Captain Anthony in an indiffer-

320' CHANCE

— m i
ent voice just raised enough to be heard in the wind.
' A blind lot on board that ship. Put out the flare now.'

"Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering
the flame in the can, bringing about by the mere turn
of his wrist the fall of darkness upon the poop. And at
the same time vanished out of his mind's eye the vision
of another flame enormous and fierce shooting violently
from a white churned patch of the sea, lighting up the
very clouds and carrying upwards in its volcanic rush
flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two destroyed
ships. It vanished and there was an immense relief.
He told me he did not know how scared he had been,
not generally but of that very thing his imagination
had conjured, till it was all over. He measured it (for
fear is a great tension)by the feeling of slack weariness
which came over him all at once.

"He walked to the companion and stooping low to
put the flare in its usual place saw in the darkness the
motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony's face. She
whispered quietly —

"'Is anything going to happen? What is it?'

"'It's all over now,' he whispered back.

"He remained bent low, his head inside the cover
staring at that white ghostly oval. He wondered she
had not rushed out on deck. She had remained quietly
there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And
it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there was
imminent danger and probably had some notion of its
nature.

'You stayed here waiting for what would come,'
he murmured admiringly.

"'Wasn't that the best thing to do?' she asked.

"He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could
not have done it. Not he. His flesh and blood could
not have stood it. He would have felt he must see

DEVOTED SERVANTS 321

what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare
might have scorched her face, and expressed his concern.
"'A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?'
"There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might
have been frightened but she certainly was not over-
come and suffered from no reaction. This confirmed
and augmented if possible Mr. Powell's good opinion
of her as a 'jolly girl,' though it seemed to him positively
monstrous to refer in such terms to one's captain's
wife. 'But she doesn't look it,' he thought in extenua-
tion and was going to say something more to her about
the lighting of that flare when another voice was heard
in the companion, saying some indistinct words. Its
tone was contemptuous; it came from below, from the
bottom of the stairs. It was a voice in the cabin. And
the only other voice which could be heard in the main
cabin at this time of the evening was the voice of Mrs.
Anthony's father. The indistinct white oval sank from
Mr. Powell's sight so swiftly as to take him by surprise.
For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion,
and now that her slight form was no longer obstructing
the narrow and winding staircase the voices came up
louder but the words were still indistinct. The old
gentleman was excited about something and Mrs.
Anthony was 'managing him' as Powell expressed it.
They moved away from the bottom of the stairs and
Powell went away from the companion. Yet he fancied
he had heard the words 'Lost to me' before he withdrew
his head. They had been uttered by Mr. Smith.

"Captain Anthony had not moved away from the*
taffrail. He remained in the very position he took up
to watch the other ship go by rolling and swinging all
shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He
stirred not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare
speak to him» so enigmatical in its contemplation of the

322, CHANCE

night did his figure appear to his young eyes : indistihet
— and in its immobility staring into gloom, the prey
of some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret.

"Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often
so impressive, so suggestive of evil — as if our proper
fate were a ceaseless agitation? The stillness of Cap-
tain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second
officer. Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted
his captain off the deck now. 'Why doesn't he go be-
low?' he asked himself impatiently. He ventured a
cough.

"Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain
Anthony spoke. He did not move the least bit. With
his back remaining turned to the whole length of the
ship he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the
chief mate had neglected to instruct him that the cap-
tain was to be found on the port side.

"'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Powell approaching his back.
'The mate told me to stamp on the port side when I
wanted you; but I didn't remember at the moment.'

'"You should remember,' the captain uttered with
an effort. Then added mumbling, 'I don't want Mrs.
Anthony frightened. Don't you see? . . .'

'"She wasn't this time,' Powell said innocently: 'She
lighted the flare-up for me, sir.'

"'This time,' Captain Anthony exclaimed and
turned round. 'Mrs. Anthony lighted the flare? .Mrs,
Anthony ! . . .' Powell explained that she was in the
companion all the time.

'"All the time,' repeated the captain. It seemed
queer to Powell that instead of going himself to see, the
captain should ask him —

'"Is she there now?'

"Powell said that she had gone below after the ship
had passed clear of the Ferndale. Captain Anthony

DEVOTED SERVANTS 323

made a movement towards the companion himself,
when Powell added the information: 'Mr. Smith called
to Mrs. Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they
are talking there now.'

"He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea
of going below after all.

''He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the
cold, of the damp wind and of the sprays. And yet he
had nothing on but his sleeping suit and slippers.
Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept
a look-out. When after some time he turned his head
to steal a glance at his eccentric captain he could not
see his active and shadowy figure swinging to and fro.
The second mate of the Ferndale walked aft peering
about and addressed the seaman who steered.

'"Captain gone below?'

"'Yes, sir,' said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco
bulging out of his left cheek kept his eyes on the com-
pass card. 'This minute. He laughed.'
■ "'Laughed,' repeated Powell incredulously. 'Do
you mean the captain did? You must be mistaken.
What would he want to laugh for?'

'"Don't know, sir.'

" The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference
towards human emotions. However, after a longish
pause he conceded a few words more to the second
officer's weakness. 'Yes. He was walking the deck
as usual when suddenly he laughed a little and made
for the companion. Thought of something funny all at
once.'

"Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not
believe. He did not ask himself why, at the time.
Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all sorts of
situations; they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless
Mr. Powell was shocked to learn that Captain Anthony

324 CHANCE

had laughed without visible cause on a certain night.
The impression for some reason was disagreeable.
And it was then, while finishing his watch, with the
chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness
where the short sea of the soundings growled spitefully
all round the ship, that it occurred to his unsophisticated
mind that perhaps things are not what they are con-
fidently expected to be; that it was possible that Cap-
tain Anthony was not a happy man. ... In so
far you will perceive he was to a certain extent prepared
for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin's lamentations
about his captain. And though he treated them with
a contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet
he admitted to me that deep down within him an inex-
plicable and uneasy suspicion that all was not well in
that cabin, so unusually eut off from the rest of the
ship, came into being and grew against his Trill. ..."

CHAPTER FOUR

ANTHONY AND FLORA

Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-
case to get himself a cigar from a box which stood on
a little table by my side. In the full light of the room
I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with
which he habitually covers up his sympathetic impulses
of mirth and pity before the unreasonable complications
the idealism of mankind puts into the simple but poig-
nant problem of conduct on this earth.

He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then
turned upon me. I had been looking at him silently.

"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving
a pellucid quality to his tone, "that you think it's high
time I told you something definite. I mean something
about that psychological cabin mystery of discomfort
(for it's obvious that it must be psychological) which
affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief mate, and
had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell,
the second of the ship Ferndale, commanded by Roder-
ick Anthony — the son of the poet, you know."

"You are going to confess now that you have failed
to find it out," I said in pretended indignation.

"It would serve you right if I told you that I have.
But I won't. I haven't failed. I own though that for a
time I was puzzled. However, I have now seen our
Powell many times under the most favourable con-
ditions — and besides I came upon a most unexpected
source of information .... But never mind that.

326 CHANCE

The means don't concern you except in so far as they
belong to the story. I'll admit that for some time the
old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and
two together failed to procure a coherent theory. I
am speaking now as an investigator — a man of deduc-
tions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony and
Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital
quarrel beautifully matured in less than a year — could
I? If you ask me what is an ordinary marital quarrel
I will tell you that it is a difference about nothing; I
mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us
when we first met him, shore people are so prone to
start a row about, and nurse into hatred from an idle
sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular
reasons too. There are on earth no actors too humble
and obscure not to have a gallery, that gallery which
envenoms the play by stealthy jeers, counsels of anger,
amused comments or words of perfidious compassion.
However, the Anthonys were free from all demoraliz-
ing influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery.
You hear no tormenting echoes of your own littleness
there, where either a great elemental voice roars de-
fiantly under the sky or else an elemental silence seems
to be part of the infinite stillness of the universe.

"Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral
misery, and Roderick Anthony carried away by ?
gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, Is it all
forgotten already? What could they have found to
estrange them from each other with this rapidity and
this thoroughness so far from all temptations, in the
peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that if it
had not been for the jealous devotion of the sentimental
Franklin stimulating the attention of Powell, there
would have been no record, no evidence of it at all.

"I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral

ANTHONY AND FLORA 327

whom I suspected. In this world as at present organ-
ized women are the suspected half of the population.
There are good reasons for that. These reasons are
so discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth
my while to set them out for you. I will only mention
this: that the part falling to women's share being all
'influence' has an air of occult and mysterious action,
something not altogether trustworthy, like all natural
forces which, for us, work in the dark because of our
imperfect comprehension.

"If women were not a force of nature, blind in its
strength and capricious in its power, they would not be
mistrusted. As it is one can't help it. You will say
that this force having been in the person of Flora de
Barral captured by Anthony , . . Why yes. He had
dealt with her masterfully. But man has captured
electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms his
home, it will even cook his dinner for him — very much
like a woman. But what sort of conquest would you
call it? He knows nothing of it. He has got to be
mighty careful what he is about with his captive.
And the greater the demand he makes on it in the ex-
ultation of his pride the more likely it is to turn on
him and burn him to a cinder. . . ."

"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly
to Marlow. He had returned to the arm-chair in the
shadow of the bookcase. "But accepting the meaning
you have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge
of how to use it. And if you mean that this ravenous
Anthony "

"Ravenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He
was a-hungering and a-thirsting for femininity to enter
his life in a way no mere feminist could have the slight-
est conception of. I reckon that this accounts for much
of Fyne's disgust with him. Good little Fyne. You

S28 , CHANCE

have no idea what infernal mischief he had worked
during his call at the hotel. But then who could have
suspected Anthony of being a heroic creature. There
are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is
idiotic. It is the one which wears the aspect of sublime
delicacy. It is apparently the one of which the son
of the delicate poet was capable.

"He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way,
wore out two women without any satisfaction to him-
self, because they did not come up to his supra-refined
standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in
his verses. That's your poet. He demands too much
from others. The inarticulate son had set up a stan-
dard for himself with that need for embodying in his
conduct the dreams, the passion, the impulses the poet
puts into arrangements of verses, which are dearer
to him than his own self — and may make his own self
appear sublime in the eyes of other people, and even
in his own eyes.

"Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own
eyes? I should not like to make that charge; though
indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at which
the world does not dare to smile. But I don't think so;
I do not even think that there was in what he did a
conscious and lofty confidence in himself, a particularly
pronounced sense of power which leads men so often
into impossible or equivocal situations. Looked at
abstractedly (the way in which truth is often seen in
its real shape) his life had been a life of solitude and
silence — and desire.

"Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we
may smile at his violent conquest of Flora de Barral
we must admit also that this eager appropriation was
truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man
also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been a

ANTHONY AND FLORA 329

man of long and ardent reveries wherein the faculty
of sincere passion matures slowly in the unexplored
recesses of the heart. And I know also that a passion,
dominating or tyrannical, invading the whole man
and subjugating all his faculties to its own unique end,
may conduct him whom it spurs and drives, into all
sorts of adventures, to the brink of unfathomable
dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and
death.

"To the man then of a silence made only more im-
pressive by the inarticulate thunders and mutters of
the great seas, an utter stranger to the clatter 6f
tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most
marked representative of that mankind whose voice is
so strange to him, the husband of his sister, a personal-
ity standing out from the misty and remote multitude.
He comes and throws at him more talk than he had
ever heard boomed out in an hour, and certainly touch-
ing the deepest things Anthony had ever discovered
in himself, and flings words like 'unfair' whose very
sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue advant-
age! He! Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her!

"No scorn could stand against the impression of such
charges advanced with heat and conviction. They shook
him. They were yet vibrating in the air of that stuffy
hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid of,
when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered.

"He did not even notice that she was late. He was
sitting on a sofa plunged in gloom. Was it true?
Having himself always said exactly what he meant he
imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of
course his brother-in-law could not be) never said more
than they meant. The deep chest voice of little Fyne
was still in his ear. 'He knows,' Anthony said to him-
self. He thought he had better go away and never see

330 CHANCE

her again. But she stood there before him accusing
and appealing. How could he abandon her? That
was out of the question. She had no one. Or rather
she had some one. That father. Anthony was will-
ing to take him at her valuation. This father may have
been the victim of the most atrocious injustice. But
what could a man coming out of jail do? An old man
too. And then — what sort of man? What would
become of them both? Anthony shuddered slightly
and the faint smile with which Flora had entered the
room faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous
tenderness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she
had never seen him look like this before, and she sus-
pected at once some new cruelty of life. He got up
with his usual ardour but as if sobered by a momentous
resolve and said —

"'No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen
you. You have told me your story. You are honest. •
You have never told me you loved me.'

"She waited, saying to herself that he had never
given her time, that he had never asked her ! And that,
in truth, she did not know !

"I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abun-
dance of experience is not precisely her lot in life, a
woman is seldom an expert in matters of sentiment.
It is the man who can and generally does 'see himself'
pretty well inside and out. Women's self-possession
is an outward thing; inwardly they flutter, perhaps be-
cause they are, or they feel themselves to be, encaged.
All this speaking generally. In Flora de Barral's
particular case ever since Anthony had suddenly
broken his way into her hopeless and cruel existence
she lived like a person liberated from a condemned
cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake;
not absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse

. ANTHONY AND FLORA 331

than the eve of execution, but stunned, bewildered—
abandoning herself passively. She did not want to
make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength.
What was the good? And deep down, almost uncon-
sciously she was seduced by the feeling of being sup-
ported by this violence. A sensation she had never
experienced before in her life.

"She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down some-
how! As if this feeling of support, which was tempting
her to close her eyes deliriously and let herself be car-
ried on and on into the unknown, undefiled by vile
experiences, were less certain, had wavered threat-
eningly. She tried to read something in his face, in
that energetic kindly face to which she had become
accustomed so soon. But she was not yet capable
of understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged
on the threshold of adolescence, plunged in moral mis-
ery of the bitterest kind, she had not learned to rea^ —
not that sort of language.

"If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love gen-
erally is, it would have been greater than the egoism
of his vanity — or of his generosity, if you like — and
all this could not have happened. He would not have
hit upon that renunciation at which one does not know
whether to grin or shudder. It is true too that then
his love would not have fastened itself upon the un-
happy daughter of de Barral. But it was a love born
of that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because
rooted in an overwhelmingly strong capacity for ten-
derness — the tenderness of the fiery predatory kind —
the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary,
passionate outcasts of their kind. At the same time
I am forced to think that his vanity must have been
enormous.

"'What big eyes she has/ he said to himself, amazed*

332 CHANCE

"No wonder. She was staring at him with all the
might of her soul awakening slowly from a poisoned
sleep, in which it could only quiver with pain but could
neither expand nor move. He plunged into them
breathless and tense, deep, deep, like a mad sailor taking
a desperate dive from the masthead into the blue un-
fathomable sea so many men have execrated and loved
at the same time. And his vanity was immense. It
had been touched to the quick by that muscular little
feminist, Fyne. 'I! I! Take advantage of her help-
lessness. I! Unfair to that creature — that wisp of
mist, that white shadow homeless in an ugly dirty
world. I could blow her away with a breath,' he was
saying to himself with horror. 'Never!' All the su-
premely refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so
many fine lines of verse by Carleon Anthony, grew to
the size of a passion filling with inward sobs the big
frame of the man who had never in his life read a single
one of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly
civilized, chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . .
ifou know there's a volume of them. My edition has
the portrait of the author at thirty, and when I showed
it to Mr. Powell the other day he exclaimed: 'Wonder-
ful! One would think this the portrait of Captain
Anthony himself if . . .' I wanted to know what
that if was. But Powell could not say. There was
something — a difference. No doubt there was — in
fineness perhaps. The father, fastidious, cerebral,
morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could only sing
in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a
dumb and reckless sincerity.

"Possessed by most men's touching illusion as to
the frailness of women and their spiritual fragility, it
Seemed to Anthony that he would be destroying, break-

ANTHONY AND FLORA 833

ing something very precious inside that being. In fact
nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems
a very extreme effect to flow from Fyne's words. But
Anthony, unaccustomed to the chatter of the firm
earth, never stayed to ask himself what value these
words could have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the
mere dark sound of them was utterly abhorrent to his
native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in the winds of
wide horizons, open as the day.

"He wished to blurt out his indignation, but she re-
garded him with an expectant air which checked him.
His visible discomfort made her uneasy. He could only
repeat, 'Oh, yes. You are perfectly honest. You
might have, but I daresay you are right. At any rate
you have never said anything to me which you didn't
mean.'

"'Never,' she whispered after a pause.

"He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion
she could not understand because it resembled embar-
rassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that man.

"She wondered what it was she had said; remember-
ing that in very truth she had hardly spoken to him
except when giving him the bare outline of her story
which he "seemed to have hardly had the patience to
hear, waving it perpetually aside with exclamations
of horror and anger, with fiercely sombre mutters
'Enough! Enough!' and with alarming starts from
a forced stillness, as though he meant to rush out at
once and take vengeance on somebody. She was say-
ing to herself that he caught her words in the air, never
letting her finish her thought. Honest. Honest.
Yes, certainly she had been that. Her letter to Mrs.
Fyne had been prompted by honesty. But she re-
flected sadly that she had never known what to say to
him. That perhaps she had nothing to say.

•334 CHANCE

"'But you'll find out that I can be honest too,' he
burst out in a menacing tone she had learned to ap-
preciate with an amused thrill,

"She waited for what was coming. But he hung in
the wind. He looked round the room with disgust as
if he could see traces on the walls of all the casual ten-
ants that had ever passed through it. People had
quarrelled in that room; they had been ill in it, there
had been misery in that room, wickedness, crime per-
haps — death most likely. This was not a fit place.
He snatched up his hat. He had made up his mind.
The ship — the ship he had known ever since she came
off the stocks, his home — her shelter — the uncontami-
nated, honest ship, was the place.

'"Let us go on board. We'll talk there,' he said.
'And yr-u will have to listen to me. For whatever
happens, no matter what they say, I cannot let you

go-'

"You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings)
she could have done anything else but go on board. It
was the appointed business of that morning. During
the drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to
condemn conventionally any human being, to scorn
and despise even deserved misfortune. He» was ready
to take old de Barral — the convict — on his daughter's
valuation without the slightest reserve. But love like
this, though it may drive one into risky folly by the
proud consciousness of its own strength, has a sagacity
of its own. And now, as if lifted up into a higher and
serene region by its purpose of renunciation, it gave him
leisure to reflect for the first time in these last few days.
He said to himself: 'I don't know that man. She does
not know him either. She was barely sixteen when they
locked him up. She was a child. What will he say?
What will he do? No,' he concluded, 'I cannot leave her

, ANTHONY AND FLORA 335

behind with that man who would come into the world
as if out of a grave.'

"They went on board in silence, and it was after
showing her round and when they had returned to the
saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, masterful fashion.
At first she did not understand. Then when she under-
stood that he was giving her her liberty she went stiff
all over, her hand resting on the edge of the table, her
face set like a carving of white marble. It was all over.
It was as that abominable governess had said. She
was insignificant, contemptible. Nobody could love
her. Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud —
never to be shaken off, unwarmed by this madness of
generosity.

"'Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you
and go away, but it is big enough for us two. Yot\
need not be afraid. If you say so I shall not even look
at you. Remember that grey head of which you have
been thinking night and day. Where is it going to rest?
Where else if not here, where nothing evil can touch it.
Don't you understand that I won't let you buy shelter
from me at the cost of your very soul? I won't. You
are too much part of me. I have found myself since
I came upon you and I would rather sell my own soul
to the devil than let you go out of my keeping. But
I must have the right.'

"He went away brusquely to shut the door leading
on deck and came back the whole length of the cabin
repeating —

"'I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of
letting people think you are my wife?'

"He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast
but mastered the impulse and shook his clenched hands
at her, repeating : ' I must have the right if only for your
father's sake, I must have the right. Where would

336 CHANCE

you take him? To that infernal cardboard-box maker?
I don't know what keeps me from hunting him up in
his virtuous home and bashing his head in. I can't
bear the thought. Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear
what I am saying to you? You are not so proud that
you can't understand that I as a man have my pride
too?'

"He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from
under each lowered eyelid. Then, abruptly, she walked
out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, concentrated,
reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, be-
fore he followed her hastily. Already she had reached
the wharf.

"At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength
failed her. Where could she escape from this? From
this new perfidy of life taking upon itself the form of
magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The
sustaining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on
again, weakened by the fresh stab, bereft of moral
support which is. wanted in life more than all the chari-
ties of material help. She had never had it. Never.
Not from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this
dock — a placid sheet of water close at hand. But
there was that old man with whom she had walked hand
in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see
him coming to meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with
an appealing look and an extended, tremulous arm. It
was for her now to take the hand of that wronged man
more helpless than a child. But where could she lead
him? Where? And what was she to say to him? What
words of cheer, of courage and of hope? There were
none. Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned at
their meeting. But this other man was coming up
behind her. He was very close now. His fiery person
seemed to radiate heat, a tingling vibration into the

ANTHONY AND FLORA 337

atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless, afraid to
stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his
breathing. A wave of languid warmth overtook her,
she seemed to lose touch with the ground under her
feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm
she made no attempt to disengage herself from that
grasp which closed upon her limb, insinuating and firm.

"He conducted her through the dangers of the quay-
side. Her sight was dim. A moving truck was like a
mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a mist;
and the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces,
the skips, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes.
She said to herself that it was good not to be bothered
with what all these things meant in the scheme of crea-
tion (if indeed anything had a meaning), or were just
piled-up matter without any sense. She felt how she
had always been unrelated to this world. She was hang-
ing on to it merely by that one arm grasped firmly just
above the elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till
they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting
outside the gates Anthony spoke only once, beginning
brusquely but in a much gentler tone than she had ever
heard from his lips.

'"Of course I ought to have known that you could not
care for a man like me, a stranger. Silence gives con-
sent. Yes? Eh? I don't want any of that sort of
consent. And unless some day you find you can speak
. . . No! No! I shall never ask you. For all
the sign I will give you you may go to your grave with
sealed lips. But what I have said you must do!'

"He bent his head over her with tender care. At the
same time she felt her arm pressed and shaken incon-
spicuously, but in an undeniable manner. 'You must
do it.' A little shake that no passer-by could notice;
and this was going on in a deserted part of the dock.

338 CHANCE

'It must be done. You are listening to me — eh? or
would you go again to my sister?'

"His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an
awful grating ferocity.

"'Would you go to her?' he pursued in the same
strange voice. 'Your best friend! And say nicely —
I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn't. There
are things that even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn't
stand. Eh? Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or
can you be thinking of taking your father to that infernal
cousin's house? No! Donl speak. I can't bear to
think of it. I would follow you there and smash the
door ! '

"The catch in his voice astonished her by its resem-
blance to a sob. It frightened her too. The thought
that came to her head was: 'He mustn't.' He was
putting her into the hansom. 'Oh! He mustn't, he
mustn't.' She was still more frightened by the dis-
covery that he was shaking all over. Bewildered,
shrinking into the far-off corner, avoiding his eyes, she
yet saw the quivering of his mouth and made a wild
attempt at a smile, which broke the rigidity of her lips
and set her teeth chattering suddenly.

'"I am not coming with you,' he was saying. 'I'll
tell the man ... I can't. Better not. What is it?
Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only to go to a
confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a
quarter of an hour. I'll come for you — in ten days.
Don't think of it too much. Think of no man, woman,
or child of all that silly crowd cumbering the ground.
Don't think of me either. Think of yourself. Ha!
Nothing will be able to touch you then — at last. Say
nothing. Don't move. I'll have everything ar-
ranged; and as long as you don't hate the sight of me—
and you don't— there's nothing to be frightened about.

ANTHONY AND FLORA 339

One of their silly offices with a couple of ink-slingers
of no consequence; poor, scribbling devils.'

"The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside.,
without movement, without thought, only too glad to
rest, to be alone and still moving away without effort
in solitude and silence.

"Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being
able to remember in the evening where he had been — ■
in the manner of a happy and exulting lover. But no-
body could have thought so from his face, which bore no
signs of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he was,
but it was a special sort of exultation which seemed to
take him by the throat like an enemy.

"Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the Reg-
istry Office where they were married ten days later.
During that time Anthony saw no one or anything,
though he went about restlessly, here and there,
amongst men and things. This special state is peculiar
to common lovers, who are known to have no eyes for
anything except for the contemplation, actual or in-
ward, of one human form which for them contains the
soul of the whole world in all its beauty, perfection,
variety and infinity. It must be extremely pleasant.
But felicity was denied to Roderick Anthony's contem-
plation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he
was punished for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors
a vacuum) were so very conventional as to abhor every
sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick Anthony had
begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was
so industrious in going about amongst his fellow-men
who would have been surprised and humiliated had
they known how little solidity and even existence they
had in his eyes. But they could not suspect anything
so queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him dur-
ing that fortnight. The proof of this is that they were

340 CHANCE

willing to transact business with him. Obviously
they were; since it is then that the offer of chartering
his ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the
Western Islands was put in his way by a firm of ship-
brokers who had no doubt of his sanity.

"He probably looked sane enough for all the practical
purposes of commercial life. But I am not sO certain
that he really was quite sane at that time.

"However, he jumped at the offer. Providence
itself was offering him this opportunity to accustom
the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short trip. This
was the time when everything that happened, every-
thing he heard, casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed
a provocation or an encouragement, confirmed him in
his resolution. And indeed to be busy with material
affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears,
doubts — all these things which stand in the way of
achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his
throat would experience a sort of relief while occupied
in stropping his razor carefully.

"And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing
for himself and for the luckless Flora an impossible
existence. He went about it with no more tremors
than if he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron
instead of flesh and blood, an existence, mind you,
which, on shore, in the thick of mankind, of varied
interests, of distractions, of infinite opportunities to pre-
serve your distance* from each other, is hardly con-
ceivable; but on board ship, at sea, en tete-a-tete for days
and weeks and months' together, could mean nothing
but mental torture, an exquisite absurdity of torment.
He was a simple soul. His hopelessly masculine ingenu-
ousness is displayed in a touching way by his care to
procure some woman to attend on Flora. The condi-
tion of guaranteed perfect respectability gave him mo*

ANTHONY AND FLORA 341

ments of anxious thought. When he remembered sud-
denly his steward's wife he must have exclaimed eureka
with particular exultation. One does not like to call
Anthony an ass. But really to put any woman within
scenting distance of such a secret and suppose that she
would not track it out !

"No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous
as that. I don't know how Flora de Barral qualified
him in her thoughts when he told her of having done
this amongst other things intended to make her com-
fortable. I should think that, for all her simplicity, she
must have been appalled. He stood before her on the
appointed day outwardly calmer than she had ever
seen him before. And this very calmness, that scrupu-
lous attitude which he felt bound in honour to assume
then and for ever, unless she would condescend to
make a sign at some future time, added to the heavi-
ness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable
guile.

"The night before she had slept better than she had
done for the past ten nights. Both youth and weariness
will assert themselves in the end against the tyranny
of nerve-racking stress. She had slept, but she woke
up with her eyes full of tears. There were no traces of
them when she met him in the shabby little parlour
downstairs. She had swallowed them up. She was not
going to let him see. She felt bound in honour to ac-
cept the situation for ever and ever unless . . . Ah,
unless . . . She dissembled all her sentiments, but
it was not duplicity on her part. All she wanted was
to get at the truth; to see what would come of it.

"She beat him at his own honourable game and the
thoroughness of her serenity disconcerted Anthony a
bit. It was he who stammered when it came to talk-
ing. The suppressed fierceness of his character carried

342 CHANCE

him on after the first word or two masterfully enough.
But it was as if they both had taken a bite of the same
bitter fruit. He was thinking with mournful regret
not unmixed with surprise: 'That fellow Fyne has been
telling me the truth. She does not care for me a bit.'
It humiliated him and also increased his compassion
for the girl who in this darkness of life, buffeted and
despairing, had fallen into the grip of his stronger will,
abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of ship-
wreck. Flora on her side with partial insight (for
women are never blind with the complete masculine
blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she felt
pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting
out; nothing new to her. But she who supposed all her
sensibility dead by this time, discovered in herself a
resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no
resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullen-
ness she said to herself: 'Well, I am here. I am here
without any nonsense. It is not my fault that I am
a mere worthless object of pity.'

"And these things which she could tell herself with a
clear conscience served her better than the passionate
obstinacy of purpose could serve Roderick Anthony.
She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such
are the advantages of mere rectitude over the most ex-
alted generosity.

"And so they went out to get married, the people of
the house where she lodged having no suspicion of Any-
thing of the sort. They were only excited at a 'gentle-
man friend ' (a very fine man too) calling on Miss Smith
for the first time since she had come to live in the house.
When she returned, for she did come back alone, there
were allusions made to that outing. She had to take
her meals with these rather vulgar people. The woman
of the house, a scraggy, genteel person, tried even to

ANTHONY AND FLORA 343

provoke confidences. Flora's white face with the deep
blue eyes did not strike their hearts as it did the heart
of Captain Anthony, as the very face of the suffering
world. Her pained reserve had no power to awe them
into decency.

"Well, she returned alone— as in fact might have been
expected. After leaving the Registry Office Flora de
Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone for a walk in a
park. It must have been an East-End park, but I am
not sure. Anyway that's what they did. It was a
sunny day. He said to her: 'Everything I have in the
world belongs to you. I have seen to that without
troubling my brother-in-law. They have no call to
interfere.'

"She walked with her hand resting lightly on his
arm. He had offered it to her on coming out of the
Registry Office, and she had accepted it silently. Her
head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over
in her mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: 'They
have been very good to me.' At that he exclaimed —

"'They have never understood you. Well, not
properly. My sister is not a bad woman, but . . .'

"Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he im-
agined that he himself understood her so much better.
Anthony dismissing his family out of his thoughts went
on: 'Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing
back. As to the piece of paper we have just got fro,m
that miserable quill-driver if it wasn't for the law, I
wouldn't mind if you tore it up here, now, on this spot.
But don't you do it. Unless you should some day feel
that '

"He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesi-
tated a moment then making up her mind bravely :

"'Neither am I keeping anything back from you.'

"She had said it! But he in his blind generosity

344 CHANCE

assumed that she was alluding to her deplorable history
and hastened to mutter —

"'Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been
lying awake thinking of it all no end of times.'

"He made a movement with his other arm as if re-
straining himself from shaking an indignant fist at the
universe; and she never even attempted to look at him.
His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in com-
parison with these tempestuous accents that in the
broad fields, in the dark garden had seemed to shake
the very earth under her weary and hopeless feet.

"She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which es-
caped her Anthony instead of shaking his fist at the
universe began to pat her hand resting on his arm and
then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt him-
self. Then after a silence —

"'You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I
. . . No, I think I mustn't come. Better not. What
you two will have to say to each others '

'She interrupted him quickly-

««i

'Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly
wronged.'

"'Yes. That's why,' Anthony insisted earnestly.
'And you are the only human being that can make it up
to him. You alone must reconcile him with the world
if anything can. But of course you shall. You'll have
to find words. Oh you'll know. And then the sight
of you, alone, would soothe '

'"He's the gentlest of men,' she interrupted again.

"Anthony shook his head. 'It would take no end
of generosity, no end of gentleness, to forgive such a
dead set. For my part I would have liked better to
have been killed and done .with at once. It could not
have been worse for you — and I suppose it was of you
t,b»t he was thinking most while those infernal lawyers

AiMttUlNX AJNJLJ FLORA 344

were badgering him in court. Of you. And now 1
think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all
back to him. All these years, all these years — and
you his child left alone in the world. I would have
gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong — — '

" 'But he hasn't,' insisted Flora de Barral with a quite
unexpected fierceness. 'You mustn't even suppose it.
Haven't you read the accounts of the trial?'

"'I am not supposing anything,' Anthony defended
himself. He just remembered hearing of the trial. He
assured her that he was away from England, the second
voyage of the Ferndale. He was crossing the Pacific
from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers
for weeks and weeks. He interrupted himself to sug-
gest—

'"You had better tell him at once that you are
happy.'

"He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral
uttered a deliberate and concise 'Yes.'

"A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand
from his arm. They stopped. Anthony looked as if a
totally unexpected catastrophe had happened.

"'Ah,' he said. 'You mind . . .'

"'No! I think I had better,' she murmured.

" 'I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight
on board to-morrow. Stop nowhere.'

"She had a moment of vague gratitude, a momen-
tary feeling of peace which she referred to the man be-
fore her. She looked up at Anthony. His face was
sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to
himself —

"'Where could he want to stop though?'

"'There's not a single being on earth that I would
want to look at his dear face now, to whom I would
willingly take him/ she said, extending her hand frankly

346 CHANCE

and with a slight break in her voice, 'but you — Roder-
ick.'

"He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate
in his broad palm.

"'That's right. That's right,' he said with a con-
scious and hasty heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed
of the sound of his voice, turned half round and abso-
lutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even
resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late.
The gravel path lay empty to the very gate of the park.
She was gone — vanished. He had an impression that
he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. That
excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him
up for the last ten days buoyed him no more. He had
succeeded !

"He strolled on aimlessly, a prey to gentle melancholy.
He walked and walked. There were but few people
about in this breathing space of a poor neighbourhood.
Under certain conditions of life there is precious little
time left for mere breathing. But still a few here and
there were indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were
Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of men,
resented their presence. Solitude had been his best
friend. He wanted some place where he could sit down
and be alone. And in his need his thoughts turned to
the sea which had given him so much of that congenial
solitude. There, if always with his ship (but that was
an integral part of him), he could always be as solitary
as he chose. Yes. Get out to sea !

"The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid,
and crossed like a net of flames thrown over the sombre
, immensity of walls, closed round him, with its artificial
brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, its un-
natural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity.
His thoughts which somehow were inclined to pity every

ANTHONY AND FLORA 347

passing figure, every single person glimpsed under a
street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a figure which
certainly could not have been seen under the lamps on
that particular night. A figure unknown to him. A
figure shut up within high unscalable walls of stone or
bricks till next morning. . . . The figure of Flora
de Barral's father. De Barral the financier — the convict.

"There is something in that word with its suggestions
of guilt and retribution which arrests the thought. We
feel ourselves in the presence of the power of organized
society — a thing mysterious in itself and still more mys-
terious in its effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it
was as if old de Barral had been down to the Nether
Regions. Impossible to imagine what he would bring
out from there to the light of this world of uncondemned
men. What would he think? What would he have
to say? And what was one to say to him?

"Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feel-
ings stretching beyond one's grasp, comforted himself
by the thought that probably the old fellow would have
little to say. He wouldn't want to talk about it. No
man would. It must have been a real hell to him.

"And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which
he had gone through a marriage ceremony with Flora
de Barral, ceased to think of Flora's father except, as in
some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to
the mental contemplation of the white, delicate and
appealing face with great blue eyes which he had seen
weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, sometimes
with incredulity, sometimes with doubt and pain, but
always irresistible in the power to find their way right
into his breast, to stir there a deep response which was
something more than love — he said to himself — as men
understand it. More? Or was it only something
other? Yes. It was something other. More or less.

348 CHANCE"

Something as incredible as the fulfilment of an amazing
and startling dream in which he could take the world
in his arms — all the suffering world — not to possess
its pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sor-
row.

"Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night
slept without dreams.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GBEAT DE BARRAL

"Renovated certainly the saloon of the Ferndale was
to receive the 'strange woman.' The mellowness of
its old-fashioned, tarnished decoration was gone. And
Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the gleams, the
colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright — too
bright. The workmen had gone only last night; and
the last piece of work they did was the hanging of the
heavy curtains which looped midway the length of the
saloon — divided it in two if released, cutting off the
after end with its companion-way leading direct on the
poop, from the forepart with its outlet on the deck;
making a privacy within a privacy, as though Captain
Anthony could not place obstacles enough between his
new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea.
He inspected that arrangement with an approving
eye then made a particular visitation of the whole, end-
ing by. opening a door which led into a large state-room
made of two knocked into one. It was very well fur-
nished and had, instead of the usual bedplace of such
cabins, an elaborate swinging cot of the latest pattern.
Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. 'The old
man will be very comfortable in here,' he said to himself,
and stepped back into the saloon closing the door
gently. Then another thought occurred to him obvious
under the circumstances but strangely enough present-
ing itself for the first time. 'Jove! Won't he get a
shock,' thought Roderick Anthony.

349

350^ CHANCE^

"He went hastily on deck. 'Mr. Franklin, Mr.
Franklin.' The mate was not very far. 'Oh! Here you
are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll be coming on board
presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab.'

"Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's
countenance, he went in again. Not a friendly word,
not a professional remark, or a small joke, not as much
as a simple and inane 'fine day.' Nothing. Just
turned about and went in.

"We know that, when the moment came, he thought
better of it and decided to meet Flora's father in that
privacy of the main cabin which he had been so care-
ful to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from
the contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not
only to face but to absolutely create a situation almost
insane in its audacious generosity, is difficult to explain.
Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance he found
that man so different outwardly from what he expected
that he decided to meet him for the first time out of
everybody's sight. Possibly the general secrecy of his
relation to the girl might have influenced him. Truly
he may well have been dismayed. That man's coming
brought him face to face with the necessity to speak
and act a lie; to appear what he was not and what he
could never be, unless, unless -

"In short, we'll say if you like that for various reasons
all having to do with the delicate rectitude of his nature,
Roderick Anthony (a man of whom his chief mate used
to say: he doesn't know what fear is) was frightened.
There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity too,
like all the other imprudences of men who dare to be
lawless and proud . . . "

"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had
stopped abruptly and kept silent in the shadow of the
bookcase.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 351

"I say this because that man whom chance had
thrown in Flora's way was both: lawless and proud.
Whether he knew anything about it or not it does not
matter. Very likely not. One may fling a glove in
the face of nature and in the face of one's own moral
endurance quite innocently, with a simplicity which
wears the aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. However,
as I have said, it does not matter. It's a transgression
all the same and has got to be paid for in the usual way.
But never mind that. I paused because, like Anthony,
I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in coming to grips
with old de Barral.

"You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He
was not an imposing personality: tall, thin, straight,
stiff, faded, moving with short steps and with a gliding
motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the
sea was rough he wasn't much seen on deck — at least
not walking. He caught hold of things then and drag-
ged himself along as far as the after skylight where he
would sit for hours. Our, then young, friend offered
once to assist him, and this service was the first begin-
ning of a sort of friendship. He clung hard to one —
Powell says, with no figurative intention. Powell was
always on the lookout to assist, and to assist mainly
Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her
that Powell was afraid of her being dragged down not-
withstanding that she soon became very sure-footed
in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only one
ready to assist at hand because Anthony (by that time)
seemed to be afraid to come near them; the unforgiving
Franklin always looked wrathfully the other way;
the boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but sheepishly;
and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a
feeling spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned
him as though he had been the devil.

S52 CHANCE

"We know how he arrived on board. For my part
I know so little of prisons that I haven't the faintest
notion how one leaves them. It seems as abominable
an operation as the other, the shutting up with its
mental suggestions of bang, snap, crash and the empty
silence outside — where an instant before you were —
you were — and now no longer are. Perfectly devilish.
And the release! I don't know which is worse. How
do they do it? Pull the string, door flies open, man
flies through: Out you go! Adios! And in the space
where a second before you were not, in the silent space
there is a figure going away, limping. Why limping?
I don't know. That's how I see it. One has a notion
of a maiming, crippling process; of the individual
coming back damaged in some subtle way. I admit it
is a fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of
course I know that the proceedings of the best machine-
made humanity are employed with judicious care and
so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still . . . Oh,
yes, it's idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . .
did you notice that there is something infernal about
the aspect of every individual stone or brick of them,
something malicious as if matter were enjoying its re-
venge of the contemptuous spirit of man. Did you
notice? You didn't? Eh? Well, I am perhaps a little
mad on that point. When I pass one of these places
I must avert my eyes. I couldn't have gone to meet de
Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You'll
notice that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubit-
ably) had shirked it too. Little Fyne's flight of fancy
picturing three people in the fatal four-wheeler — you
remember? — went wide of the truth. There were only
two people in the four-wheeler. Flora did not shrink.
Women can stand anything. The dear creatures have
no imagination when it comes to solid facts of life. In

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 353

sentimental regions — I won't say. It's another thing
altogether. There they shrink from or rush to embrace
ghosts of their own creation just the same as any fool-
man would.

"No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand
reasonably. And then, why! This was the moment
for which she had lived. It was her only point of con-
tact with existence. Oh, yes. She had been assisted
bytheFynes. And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But
that's not enough. There is a kind way of assisting
our fellow-creatures which is enough to break their
hearts while it saves their outer envelope. How cold,
how infernally cold she must have felt — unless when she
was made to burn with indignation or shame. Man,
we know, cannot live by bread alone, but hang me if I
don't believe that some women could live by love alone.
If there be a flame in human beings fed by varied in-
gredients earthly and spiritual which tinge it in differ-
ent hues, then I seem to see the colour of theirs. It is
azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at? ..."

Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if
lifted by indignation, but there was the flicker of a smile
on his lips. "You say I don't know women. Maybe.
It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine.
But I have a clear notion of woman. In all of them,
termagant, flirt, crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking,
outcast and even in the ordinary fool of the ordinary
commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And
when there is a spark there can always be a flame . . ."

He went back into the shadow and sat down again.

"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one
of the sort that could live by love alone. In fact she
had managed to live without. But still, in the distrust
of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of
love, as women will. And that confounded jail was the

354 CHANCE

only spot where she could see it-— for she had no reason
to distrust her father.

"She was there in good time. I see her gazing
across the road at these walls which are, properly
speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel along
the very lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall
of time, drop by drop, hour by hour, leaf by leaf, with a
gentle and implacable slowness. And a voiceless mel-
ancholy comes over one, invading, overpowering like
a dream, penetrating and mortal like poison.

"When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of
shock to see that he was exactly as she remembered him.
Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise unchanged. You
come out in the same clothes, you know. I can't tell
whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was.
Whether he recognized her? Very likely. She crossed
the road and at once there was reproduced at a distance
of years, as if by some mocking witchcraft, the sight so
familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the financier de
Barral walking with his only daughter. One comes out
of prison in the same clothes one wore on the day of
condemnation, no matter how long one has been put
away there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is
something which is preserved by prison life even better
than one's discarded clothing. It is the force, the vivid-
ness of one's sentiments. A monastery will do that too;
but in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown
back wholly upon yourself — for God and Faith are not
there. The people outside disperse their affections,
you hoard yours, you nurse them into intensity. What
they let slip, what they forget in the movement and
changes of free life, you hold on to, amplify, exaggerate
into a rank growth of memories. They can look with a
smile at the troubles and pains of the past; but you
can't. Old pains keep on gnawing at your heart, old

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 355

desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in
the dead stillness of your present where nothing moves
except the irrecoverable minutes of your life.

"De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being
led away almost before he had taken possession of the
free world, by his daughter. Flora controlled herself
well. They walked along quickly for some distance.
The cab had been left round the corner — round several
corners for all I know. He was flustered, out of breath,
when she helped him in and followed herself. Inside
that rolling box, turning towards that recovered pres-
ence with her heart too full for words she felt the desire
of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her
suddenly, her half-mournful, half-triumphant exulta-
tion subside, every fibre of her body, relaxed in tender-
ness, go stiff in the close look she took at his face. He
was different. There was something. Yes, there was
something between them, something hard and impal-
pable, the ghost of these high walls.

"How old he was, how unlike!

"She shook off this impression, amazed and fright-
ened by it of course. And remorseful too. Naturally.
She threw her arms round his neck. He returned that
hug awkwardly as if not in perfect control of his arms,
with a fumbling and uncertain pressure. She hid her
face on his breast. It was as though she were pressing
it against a stone. They released each other and pres-
ently the cab was rolling along at a jog-trot to the
docks with those two people as far apart as they could
get from each other, in opposite corners.

"After a silence given up to mutual examination he
uttered his first coherent sentence outside the walls of
the prison.

"'What has done for me was envy. Envy. There
was a lot of them just bursting with it every time they

356 CHANCE

looked my way. I was doing too well. So they went
to the Public Prosecutor '

"She said hastily: 'Yes! Yes! I know,' and he
glared as if resentful that the child had turned into a
young woman without waiting for him to come out.
'What do you know about it?' he asked. 'You were
too young.' His speech was soft. The old voice,
the old voice! It gave her a thrill. She recognized
its pointless gentleness always the same no matter what
he had to say. And she remembered that he never
had much to say when he came down to see her. It
was she who chattered, chattered, on their walks, while
stiff and with a rigidly carried head, he dropped a gentle
word now and then.

"Moved by these recollections waking up within her,
she explained to him that within the last year she had
read and studied the report of the trial.
) '"I went through the files of several papers, papa.'

"He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were
probably very incomplete. No doubt the reporters had
garbled his evidence. They were determined to give
him no chance either in court or before the public
opinion. It was a conspiracy. . . . 'My counsel
was a fool too,' he added. 'Did you notice? A perfect
fool.'

"She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. 'Is it
worth while talking about that awful time? It is so
far away now.' She shuddered slightly at the thought
of all the horrible years which had passed over her young
head; never guessing that for him the time was but
yesterday. He folded his arms on his breast, leaned
back in his corner and bowed his head. But in a little
while he made her jump by asking suddenly:

"'Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway?
That's what they were after mainly. Somebody has

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 357

got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it— eh? Or was it
that fellow Warner. . . .'

"I — I don't know,' she said, quite scared by the
twitching of his lips.

"Don't know!' he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her
cousin told her? Oh, yes. She had left them — of
course. Why did she? It was his first question about
herself but she did not answer it. She did not want to
talk of these horrors. They were impossible to de-
scribe. She perceived though that he had not expected
an answer, because she heard him muttering to himself
that ' There was half a million's worth of work done and
material accumulated there.'

" ' You mustn't think of these things, papa,' she said
firmly. And he asked her with that invariable gentle-
ness, in which she seemed now to detect some rather
ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another
year or two, if they had only left him alone, he and every-
body else would have been all right, rolling in money;
and she, his daughter, could have married anybody —
anybody. A lord.

"All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday,
a yesterday gone over innumerable times, analyzed,
meditated upon for years. It had a vividness and force
for that old man of which his daughter who had not
been shut out of the world could have no idea. She
was to him the only living figure out of that past, and
it was perhaps in perfect good faith that he added,
coldly, inexpressive and thin-lipped: 'I lived only for
you, I may say. I suppose you understand that.
There were only you and me.'

"Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did
not warm her heart more, she murmured a few endear-
ing words while the uppermost thought in her mind
was that she must tell him now of the situation. She

358 CHANCE

had expected to be questioned anxiously about herself
— and while she desired it she shrank from the answers
she would have to make. But her father seemed
strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if
there would be no questions. Still this was an opening.
This seemed to be the time for her to begin. And she
began. She began by saying that she had ^always
felt like that. There were two of them, to live for
each other. And if he only knew what she had gone
through !

"Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he
stared out of the cab window at the street. How little
he was changed after all. It was the unmovable ex-
pression, the faded stare she used to see on the Esplanade
whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised
her eyes to his face — while she chattered, chattered.
It was the same stiff, silent figure which at a word from
her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy her anything
it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora
de Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-
remembered glance in which she had never read
anything as a child, except the consciousness of her exist-
ence. And that was enough for a child who had never
known demonstrative affection. But she had lived a
life so starved of all feeling that this was no longer
enough for her. What was the good of telling him the
story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all
those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What
she must tell him was difficult enough to say. She ap-
proached it by remarking cheerfully —

"'You haven't even asked me where I am taking
you.'

"He started like a somnambulist awakened suddenly,
and there was now some meaning in his stare; a sort of
alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 359

Flora struck in with forced gaiety: 'You would never
guess.'

"He waited, still more startled and suspicious.
' Guess ! Why don't you tell me? '

"He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards
her. She got hold of one of his hands. 'You must
know first . . .' She paused, made an effort: 'I
am married, papa.'

"For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab
rolling on at a steady jog-trot through a narrow city
street full of bustle. Whatever she expected she did
not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her
grasp as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral
fresh from the stagnant torment of the prison (where
nothing happens) had not expected that sort of news.
It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones
he cried out, 'You — married? You, Flora! When?
Married! What for? Who to? Married!'

"His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded,
without depth, seemed to start out of their orbits. He
did really look as if he were choking. He even put his
hand to his collar . . .

"You know," continued Marlow out of the shadow
of the bookcase and nearly invisible in the depths of the
arm-chair, "the only time I saw him he had given me
the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had
swallowed a poker. But it seems that he could collapse.
I can hardly picture this to myself. I understand that
he did collapse to a certain extent in his corner of the
cab. The unexpected had crumpled him up. She
regarded him perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned,
and nodded at him gravely: Yes. Married. What
she did not like was to see him smile in a manner far
from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. Th*»re

360 CHANCE

was something unintentionally savage in it. Old de
Barral could not quite command his muscles, as yet.
But he had recovered command of his gentle voice.

"'You were just saying that in this wide world there
we were, only you and I, to stick to each other.'

"She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurk-
ing in these soft low tones, in these words which ap-
pealed to her poignantly. She defended herself. Never,
never for a single moment had she ceased to think of
him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, with
as much sinister emphasis as he was capable of.

"'But, papa,' she cried, 'I haven't been shut up like
you.' She didn't mind speaking of it because he was
innocent. He hadn't been understood. It was a mis-
fortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful
than an illness, a maiming accident or some other visita-
tion of blind fate. T wish I had been too. But I was
alone out in the world, the horrid world, that very
world which had used you so badly.'
, "'And you couldn't go about in it without finding
somebody to fall in love with?' he said. A jealous rage
affected his brain like the fumes, of wine, rising from
some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all
emotions. The hollows at the corners of his lips be-
came more pronounced in the puffy roundness of his
cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with particular force
men withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active
life. 'And I did nothing but think of you!' he ex-
claimed under his breath, contemptuously. 'Think
of you ! You haunted me, I tell you.'

"Flora said to herself that there was a being who
loved her. 'Then we have been haunting each other,'
she declared with a pang of remorse. For indeed he
had haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final
and irremediable desertion. .'Some day I shall tell

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 361

you . . . No. I don't think I can ever tell you.
There was a time when I was mad. But what's the
good? It's all over now. We shall forget all this.
There will be nothing to remind us.'

"De Barral moved his shoulders.

'"I think you were mad to tie yourself to . . .
How long is it since you are married?'

"She answered 'Not long,' that being the only an-
swer she dared to make. Everything was so different
from what she imagined it would be. He wanted to
know why she had said nothing of it in any of her
letters; in her last letter. She said:

"Tt was after.'

" ' So recently ! ' he wondered. ' Couldn't you wait at
feast till I came out? You could have told me; asked
me; consulted me! Let me see '

"She shook her head negatively. And he was ap-
palled. He thought to Himself: Who can he be? Some
miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or perhaps
some scoundrel ? Without making any expressive move-
ment he wrung his loosely clasped hands till the joints
cracked. He looked at her. She was pretty. Some
low scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible
vagabond. . . . 'You couldn't wait — eh?'

"Again she made a slight negative sign.

" ' Why not? What was the hurry? ' She cast down
her eyes. 'It had to be. Yes. It was sudden, but
it had to be.'

"He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes
wild with virtuous anger, but meeting the absolute
candour of her raised glance threw himself back into
his corner again.

"'So tremendously in love with each other — was that
it? Couldn't let a father have his daughter all to
hitnsplf pvpti fnr a. dav after — after such a senara.t.inn.

862 CHANCE

And you know I never had any one, I had no friends.
"What did I want with those people one meets in the
City? The best of them are ready to cut your throat.
Yes I Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men and
women— out of spite, or to get something. Oh, yes,
they can talk fair enough if they think there's something
to be got out of you. . . .' His voice was a mere
breath yet every word came to Flora as distinctly as
if charged with all the moving power of passion. . . .
'My girl, I looked at them making up to me and I
would say to myself: What do I care for all that! I
am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes,
yes, some of them twisted their mouths at it, but I was
the great Mr. de Barral) and I have my little girl. I
wanted nobody and I have never had anybody.'

"A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words
that came out of them were no louder than the murmur
of a light wind. It died away.

"'That's just it,' said Flora de Barral under her
breath. Without removing his eyes from her he took
off his hat. It was a tall hat. The hat of the trial.
The hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated
papers. One comes out in the same clothes, but seclu-
sion counts ! It is well known that lurid visions haunt
secluded men, monks, hermits — then why not prisoners?
De Barral the convict took off the silk hat of the finan-
cier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat of the
cab. Then he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the
face.

"And then what happens?' he began again in his
contained voice. 'Here I am, overthrown, broken by
envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come out —
and what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone
and married some man or other, perhaps a fool, how do
I know; or perhaps — anyway not good enough.'

THE GREAT DE BARRAL

"'Stop, papa.'

"'A silly love affair as likely as not,' he continued
monotonously, his thin lips writhing between the ill-
omened sunk corners. 'And a very suspicious thing it
is too, on the part of a loving daughter.'

She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she
actually clapped her hand on his mouth. He rolled
his eyes a bit, but when she took her hand away he
remained silent.

"'Wait. I must tell you. ... And first of all,
papa, understand this, for everything's in that: he is
the most generous man in the world. He is . . .'

"De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an
effort :

" ' You are in love with him.'

'"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I
had no eyes for anybody. I could no longer bear to
think of you. It was then that he came. Only then.
At that time when — when I was going to give up.'

"She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to
be understood, to be given encouragement, peace — a
word of sympathy. He declared without animation :

"T would like to break his neck.'

"She had the mental exclamation of the overbur-
dened, 'Oh, my God!' and watched him with frightened
eyes. But he did not appear insane or in any other
way formidable. This comforted her. The silence
lasted for some little time. Then suddenly he asked:

'"What's your name then?'

"For a moment in the profound trouble of the task
before her she did not understand what the question
meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she whispered:
4 Anthony.'

"Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned hig
head back wearily in the corner of the cab

364 , CHANCE

"'Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring
from?'

"'Papa, it was in the country, on a road '

"He groaned, 'On a road,' and closed his eyes.

" ' It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have
lots of time. There are things I could not tell you now.
But some day. Some day. For now nothing can part
us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live — nothing
can ever come between us.'

'"You are infatuated with the fellow,' he remarked,
without opening his eyes. And she said: 'I believe
in him,' in a low voice. 'You and I must believe in
him.'

"'Who the devil is he?'

" 'He's the brother of the lady — you know Mrs. Fyne,
she knew mother — who was so kind to me. I was stay-
ing in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. and Mrs.
Fyne. It was there that we met. He came on a visit.
He noticed me. I — well — we are married now.'

"She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It
made it easier to talk of the future she had arranged,
which now was an unalterable thing. She did not enter
on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She
felt he would not understand her. She felt also that
he suffered. Now and then a great anxiety gripped her
heart with a mysterious sense of guilt — as though she
had betrayed him into the hands of an enemy. With
his eyes shut he had an air of weary and pious medita- r
tion. She was a little afraid of it. Next moment a
great pity for him filled her heart. And in the back-
ground there was remorse. His face twitched now and
then just perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids
down till he heard that the 'husband' was a sailor and
that he, the father, was being taken straight on board
ship ready to sail away from this abominable world

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 365

p —

of treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away,
away over the blue sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the
uncontaminated and spacious refuge for wounded souls.

"Something like that. Not the very words perhaps
but such was the general sense of her overwhelming
argument — the argument of refuge.

"I don't think she gave a thought to material con-
ditions. But as part of that argument set forth breath-
lessly, as if she were afraid that if she stopped for a
moment she could never go on again, she mentioned
that generosity of a stormy type, which had come to
her from the sea, had caught her up on the brink of
unmentionable failure, had whirled her away in its
first ardent gust and could be trusted now, implicitly
trusted, to carry them both, side by side, into absolute
safety.

"She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood
thoroughly at last, and at once the interior of that cab,
of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of the people on the
pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The
generosity of Roderick Anthony — the son of the poet —
affected the ex-financier de Barral in a manner which
must have brought home to Flora de Barral the ex-
treme arduousness of the business of being a woman.
Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it con-
sists principally of dealings with men. This man —
the man inside the cab — cast off his stiff placidity and
behaved like an animal. I don't mean it in an offensive
sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive
panic. Like some wild creature scared by the first
touch of a net falling on its back, old de Barral began to
struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air — as
much of it as there was in the cab— with staring eyes
and gasping mouth from which his daughter shrank
as far as she could in the confined space.

366 CHANCE

'"Stop the cab. Stop him, I tell you. Let me get
out ! ' were the strangled exclamations she heard. Why?
What for? To do what? He would hear nothing.
She cried to him 'Papa! Papa! What do you want
to do?' And all she got from him was: 'Stop. I must
get out. I want to think. I must get out to think.'

"It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the
door at once. He only stuck his head and shoulders
out of the window, crying to the cabman. She saw the
consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting
around a raving old gentleman. ... In this terrible
business of being a woman so full of fine shades, of
delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) you can
never know "what rough work you may have to do, at
any moment. Without hesitation Flora seized her
father round the body and pulled back — being aston-
ished at the ease with which she managed to make
him drop into his seat again. She kept him there reso-
lutely with one hand pressed against his breast, and
leaning across him, she, in her turn, put her head and
shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had
drawn up to the curbstone and was stopped. 'No!
I've changed my mind. Go on please where you were
told first. To the docks.'

"She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice.
She heard a grunt from the driver and the cab began to
roll again. Only then she sank into her place keeping
a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly
anything more by this time. Except for her child-
hood's impressions he was just — a man. Almost a
stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there
was the other too. Also almost a stranger. The
trade of being a woman was very difficult. Too dif-
ficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: *If I
think too much about it I shall go mad.' And then

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 367

opening them she asked her father if the prospect of

living always with his daughter and being taken care

of by her affection away from the world, which had no

honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an awful

prospect.

, "'Tell me, is it so bad as that?'

"She put that question sadly, without bitterness.
The famous — or notorious — de Barral had lost his
rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing more deplorably
futile than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added
gently, suppressing an uneasy remorseful sigh:

"'And it might have been worse. You might have
found no one, no one in all this town, no one in all the
world, not even me! Poor papa!'

"She made a conscience-stricken movement towards
him thinking: 'Oh! I am horrible, I am horrible.' And
old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered by the ex-
traordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and
actually leaned his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing
over his regained freedom.

"The movement by itself was touching. Flora, sup-
porting him lightly, imagined that he was crying; and at
the thought that had she smashed in a quarry that
shoulder together with some other of her bones, this
grey and pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest,
she too gave way to tears. They flowed quietly, easing
her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he pushed her away
from him so that her head struck the side of the cab,
pushing himself away too from her as if something
had stung him.

"All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very
last tears turned cold on her cheek. But their work was
done. She had found courage, resolution, as women
do, in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper
part of his face, whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out

868 CHANCE

an unbearable sight, he was stiffening up in his corner
to his usual poker-like consistency. She regarded him
in silence. His thin obstinate lips moved. He uttered"
the name of the cousin — the man, you remember, who
did not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or
wrongly little Fyne suspected of interested motives,
in view of de Barral having possibly put away some
plunder, somewhere before the smash.

" I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know
anything more of him. But de Barral was of the opin-
ion, speaking in his low voice from under his hand, that
this relation would have been only too glad to have
secured his guidance.

'"Of course I could not come forward in my own
name or person. But the advice of a man of my ex-
perience is as good as a fortune to anybody wishing to
venture into finance. The same sort of thing can be
done again.'

"He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and
turning carefully towards his daughter his puffy round
cheeks, his round chin resting on his collar, he bent on
her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which were
wet.

'"The start is really only a matter of judicious ad-
vertising. There's no difficulty. And here you go
and . . .'

"He turned his face away. 'After all I am still de
Barral, the de Barral. Didn't you remember that?'

"'Papa,' said Flora; 'listen. It's you who must re-
member that there is no longer a de Barral . . .' He
looked at her sideways anxiously. 'There is Mr.
Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of
evil people can ever touch.'

"'Mr. Smith,' he breathed out slowly. 'Where does
he belong to? . There's not even a Miss Smith.'

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 369

"'There is your Flora.'

"'My Flora! You went and ... I can't bear to
think of it. It's horrible.'

"'Yes. It was horrible enough at times,' she said
with feeling, because somehow, obscurely, what this
man said appealed to her as if it were her own thought
clothed in an enigmatic emotion. 'I think with shame
sometimes how I . . . No not yet. I shall not tell
you. At least not now.'

"The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora
handed the tall hat to her father. 'Here, papa. And
please be good. I suppose you love me. If you don't,
then I wonder who '

"He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner,
kept a sidelong glance on his girl. 'Try to be nice for
my sake. Think of the years I have been waiting for
you. I do indeed want support — and peace. A
little peace.'

"She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands press-
ing with all her might as if to crush the resistance she
felt in him. 'I could not have peace if I did not have
you with me. I won't let you go. Not after all I went
through. I won't.' The nervous force of her grip
frightened him a little. She laughed suddenly. 'It's
absurd. It's as if I were asking you for a sacrifice.
What am I afraid of? Where could you go? I mean
now, to-day, to-night? You can't tell me. Have you
thought of it? Well, I have been thinking of it for the
last year. Longer. I nearly went mad trying to find
out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I should
never have thought . . . ' >

"This was as near as she came to a confession," re-
marked Marlow in a changed tone. "The confession I
mean of that walk to the top of the quarry which she

370 CHANCE

reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of i\
what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly have
been a just notion. The cab stopped alongside the ship
and they got out in the manner described by the sensitive
Franklin. I don't know if they suspected each other's
sanity at the end of that drive. But that is possible.
We all seem a little mad to each other; an excellent ar-
rangement for the bulk of humanity which finds in it an
easy motive of forgiveness. Flora crossed the quarter-
deck with a rapidity born of apprehension. It had
grown unbearable. She wanted this business over.
She was thankful on looking back to see he was following
her. ' If he bolts away,' she thought, ' then I shall know
that I am of no account indeed ! That no one loves me,
that words and actions and protestations and everything
in the world is false — and I shall jump into the dock.
That at least won't lie.'

"Well, I don't know. If it had come to that she
would have been most likely fished out, what with her
natural want of luck and the good many people on the
quay and on board. And just where the Ferndale was
moored there hung on a wall (I know the berth) a coil
of line, a pole, and a life-buoy kept there on purpose
to save people who tumble into the dock. It's not so
easy to get away from life's betrayals as she thought.
However it did not come to that. He followed her with
his quick gliding walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated
convict de Barral passed off the solid earth for the last
time, vanished for ever, and there was Mr. Smith added
to that world of waters which harbours so many queer
fishes. An old gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary
glances. He followed, because mere existence has its
claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no
doubt he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-
law. Nothing more respectable. But he carried in his

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 371

heart the confused pain of dismay and affection, of
involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his
daughter. Only in addition he felt a furious jealousy
of the man he was going to see.

"A residue of egoism remains in every affection —
even paternal. And this man in the seclusion of his
prison had thought himself into such a sense of owner-
ship of that single human being he had to think about,
as may well be inconceivable to us who have not had
to serve a long (and wickedly unjust) sentence of penal
servitude. She was positively the only thing, the one
point where his thought found a resting-place, for years.
She was the only outlet for his imagination. He had
not much of that faculty to be sure, but there was in it
the force of concentration. He felt outraged, and per-
haps it was an absurdity on his part, but I venture to
suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion
that no usual, normal father is pleased at parting with
his daughter. No. Not even when he rationally ap-
preciates 'Jane being taken off his hands' or perhaps
is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite
deep down, down in the dark (in some cases only by
digging), there is to be found a certain repugnance.
. . . With mothers of course it is different. Women
are more loyal, not to each other, but to their common
femininity which they behold triumphant with a secret
and proud satisfaction.

"The circumstances of that match added to Mr.
Smith's indignation. And if he followed his daughter
into that ship's cabin it was as if into a house of dis-
grace and only because he was still bewildered by the
suddenness of the thing. His will, so long lying fallow,"
was overborne by her determination and by a vague fear
of that regained liberty.
, "You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he

372 CHANCE

did shirk the welcome on the quay, behaved admirably,
with the simplicity of a man who has no small mean-
nesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did
not flinch and his tongue did not falter. He was, I
have it on the best authority, admirable in his earnest-
ness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. He
was perfect. Nevertheless the vital force of his un-
known individuality addressing him so familiarly was
enough to fluster Mr. Smith. Flora saw her father
trembling in all his exiguous length, though he held
himself stiffer than ever if that was possible. He mut-
tered a little and at last managed to utter, not loud of
course but very distinctly: 'I am here under protest,'
the corners of his mouth sunk disparagingly, his eyes
stony. 'I am here under protest. I have been locked
up by a conspiracy. I '

"He raised his hands to his forehead — his silk hat was
on the table rim upwards; he had put it there with a
despairing gesture as he came in — he raised his hands

to his forehead. 'It seems to me unfair. I ' He

broke off again. Anthony looked at Flora who stood
by the side of her father. — 'Well, sir, you will soon get
used to me. Surely you and she must have had enough
of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half
ways to last you both for a life-time. A particularly
merciful lot they are too. You ask Flora. I am allud-
ing to my own sister, her best friend, and not a bad
woman either as they go.'

"The captain of the Ferndale checked himself.
'Lucky thing I was there to step in. I want you to
make yourself at home, and before long '

"The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced
Anthony by its inexpressive fixity. He signalled with
his eyes to Flora towards the door of the state-room
fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free man.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 37S

She seized the free man's hat off the table and took him
caressingly under the arm. 'Yes! This is home, come
and see your room, papa!'

"Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora
took care to shut it carefully behind herself and her
father. 'See,' she began but desisted because it was
clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for
his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them before.
He was looking only at the new carpet and she waited
till he should raise his eyes.

"He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice.
'So this is your husband, that. . . And I locked
up!'

"'Papa, what's the good of harping on that?' she
remonstrated no louder. 'He is kind.'

"'And you went and . . . married him so that he
should be kind to me. Is that it? How did you know
that I wanted anybody to be kind to me? '

"'How strange you are!' she said thoughtfully.

"'It's hard for a man who has gone through what I
have gone through to feel like other people. Has that
occurred to you? . . .' He looked up at last. . . .
'Mrs. Anthony, 1 can't bear the sight of the fellow.'
She met his eyes without flinching and he added, 'You
want to go to him now.' His mild automatic manner
seemed the effect of tremendous self-restraint — and
yet she remembered him always like that. She felt cold
all over.

"'Why, of course, I must go to him,' she said with a
slight start.

"He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out.

"Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of
his hands was resting on the table. She went up to him,
atopped, then deliberately moved still closer. 'Thank
you, Roderick-'

374 CHANCE

'"You needn't thank me/ he murmured. 'It's I
who . . .'

'"No, perhaps I needn't. You do what you like.
But you are doing it well.'

" He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they
were near the state-room door, 'Upset, eh?'

"She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The
thorough falseness of the position weighed on them both.
But he was the braver of the two. 'I dare say. At
first. Did you think of telling him you were happy?'

'"He never asked me,' she smiled faintly at him.
She was disappointed by his quietness. 'I did not say
more than I was absolutely obliged to say — of myself.'
She was beginning to be irritated with this man a little.
'I told him I had been very lucky,' she said suddenly
despondent, missing Anthony's masterful manner, that
something arbitrary and tender which, after the first
scare, she had accustomed herself to look forward to
with pleasurable apprehension. He was contemplating
her rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor
things, hat, gloves. She was like a caller. And she
had a movement suggesting the end of a not very satis-
factory business call. 'Perhaps it would be just as
well if we went ashore. Time yet.'

"He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in
the low vehement 'You dare!' which sprang to his lips
and out of them with a most menacing inflection.

"'You dare . . . What's the matter now?'

"These last words were shot out not at her but at
some target behind her back. Looking over her shoul-
der she saw the bald head with black bunches of hair
of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap
in his hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon door-
Way with his lobster eyes. He was heard from the
distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting that

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 375

the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted
to move the ship into the basin before the crew came
on board.

"His captain growled 'Well, let him,' and waved away
the ulcerated and pathetic soul behind these prominent
eyes which lingered on the offensive woman while the
mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora.

"You could not have meant it. You are as straight
as they make them.'

"'I am trying to be.'

" ' Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would
become of — me.'

"'Oh, yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It
wasn't a joke. It was forgetfulness. You wouldn't
have been wronged. I couldn't have gone. I — I
am too tired.'

"He saw she was swaying where she stood and re-
strained himself violently from taking her into his arms,
his frame trembling with fear as though he had been
tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He step-
ped aside and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the
stern-cabin. It was only after she passed by him that
he looked up and thus he did not see the angry glance
she gave him before she moved on. He looked after
her. She tottered slightly just before reaching the
door and flung it to behind her nervously.

"Anthony — he had felt this crash as if the door had
been slammed inside his very breast — stood for a mo-
ment without moving and then shouted for Mrs.
Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky inspira-
tion to make Flora comfortable. 'Mrs. Brown! Mrs.
Brown!' At last she appeared from somewhere-
'Mrs. Anthony has come on board. Just gone into the
cabin. Hadn't you better see if you can be of any
assistance?'

376 CHANCE

"'Yes, sir.'

"And again he was alone with the situation he had
created in the hardihood and inexperience of his heart.
He thought he had better go on deck. In fact he ought
to have been there before. At any rate it would be the
usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of
muttering and of faint thuds somewhere near by ar-
rested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. Smith's
room, he perceived. It was very extraordinary. 'He's
talking to himself,' he thought. ' He seems to be thump-
ing the bulkhead with his fists — or his head.'

"Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he lis-
tened to these noises. He became so attentive that
he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually stopped
before him for a moment to say —

"'Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir.'

"This was, you understand, the voyage before Mr.
Powell — young Powell then — joined the Ferndale;
chance having arranged that he should get his start
in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in
the port of London. The most unrestful ship that
ever sailed out of any port on earth. I am not alluding
to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell tells me she was
as steady as a church. I mean unrestful in the sense,
for instance, which this planet of ours is unrestful — a
matter of an uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions,
jealousies, loves, hates and the troubles of transcen-
dental good intentions, which, though ethically valuable,
I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness than the
plots of the most evil tendency. For those who refuse
to believe in chance he, I mean Mr. Powell, must have
been obviously predestined to add his native ingenu-
ousness to the sum of all the others carried by the
honest ship Ferndale. He was too ingenuous. Every-

. THE GREAT DE BARRAL 377

body on board was, exception being made of Mr.
Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way,
with that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which
there is also another name men pronounce with dread
and aversion. His fixed idea was to save his girl from
the man who had possessed himself of her (I use these
words on purpose because the image they suggest was
clearly in Mr. Smith's mind), possessed himself un-
fairly of her while he, the father, was locked up.

"I won't rest till I have got you away from that
man,' he would murmur to her after long periods of
contemplation. We know from Powell how he used
to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair on which
Flora was reclining, gazing into her face from above with
an air of guardianship and investigation at the same time.
"It is almost impossible to say if he ever had con-
sidered the event rationally. The avatar of de Barral
into Mr. Smith had not been effected without a shock — ■
that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove
all practical considerations out of his mind, making
room for awful and precise visions which nothing could
dislodge afterwards. And it might have been the te-
nacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the man who had
persisted in throwing millions of other people's thrift
into the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks,
the Spotted Leopard Copper Mine, and other grotesque
speculations exposed during the famous de Barral trial,
amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts
of laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy
finds its last refuge in our deadly serious world. As to
tears and lamentations these were not heard in the
august precincts of Comedy, because they were in-
dulged in privately in several thousand homes, where,
with a fine dramatic effect, Hunger had taken the place
of Thrift.

378 CHANCE

"But there was one at least who did not laugh in
court. That person was the accused. The notorious
de Barral did not laugh because he was indignant. He
was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It
would have been impossible to make him see his guilt
or his folly — either by evidence or argument — if any-
body had tried to argue.

"Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with
him. The cruelty of her position was so great, its com-
plications bo thorny, if I may express myself so, that a
passive attitude was yet her best refuge — as it had been
before her of so many women.

"For that sort of inertia in woman is always enig-
matic and therefore menacing. It makes one pause. A
woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an agitated fool,
a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply
stupid. But she is never dense. She's never made of
wood through and through as some men are. There
is in woman always, somewhere, a spring. Whatever
men don't know about women (and it may be a lot or it
may be very little) men and even fathers do know that
much. And that is why so many men are afraid of
them.

"Mr. Smith, I believe, was afraid of his daughter's
quietness though of course he interpreted it in his own
way.

"He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight
and bend over the reclining girl, wondering what there
was behind the lost gaze under the darkened eyelids in
the still eyes. He would look and look and then he
would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for his
voice to drop to a mere breath — he would declare,
transferring his faded stare to the horizon, that he
would never rest till he had 'got her away from that
man.'

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 37$>

"'You don't know what you are saying, papa.'

"She would try not to show her weariness, the ner-
vous strain of these two men's antagonism around her
person which was the cause of her languid attitudes.
For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her.

"As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the
other side of the deck. The strain was making him
restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He had tried
shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good.
He would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up
and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, without
being able to wear down the agitation of his soul, gene-
rous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and
muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating
precise images and everlastingly speculating, speculat-
ing — looking out for signs, watching for symptoms.

"And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his
small head at the footsteps on the other side of the sky-
light would insist in his awful, hopelessly gentle voice
that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't
she given herself to that man while he was locked up?

" ' Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing
to look forward to, but my daughter. And then when
they let me out at last I find her gone — for it amounts
to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you know
you have.'

"With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white
hair waving in the wind-eddies of the spanker, his
glance levelled over the sea, he seemed to be addressing
the universe across her reclining form. She would pro-
test sometimes.

"'I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You
are only tormenting me, and tormenting yourself.'

'"Yes, I am tormented enough,' he admitted mean-
ingly. But it was not talking about it that tormented

380 CHANCE

him. It was thinking of it. And to sit and look at it
was worse for him than it possibly could have been for
her to go and give herself up, bad as that must have
been.

'"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you
didn't. You must have.'

"She had renounced very soon all attempts at pro-
tests. It was useless. It might have made things
worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her father,
the only human being that really cared for her, abso-
lutely, evidently, completely — to the end. There was
in him no pity, no generosity, nothing whatever of
these fine things — it was for her, for her very own self,
such as it was, that this human being cared. This
certitude would have made her put up with worse
torments. For, of course, she too was being tormented.
She felt also helpless, as if the whole enterprise had
been too much for her. This is the sort of conviction
which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist.

"What must have been rather appalling were the
necessities of daily life, the intercourse of current trifles.
That naturally had to go on. They wished good morn-
ing to each other, they sat down together to meals —
and I believe there would be a game of cards now and
then in the evening, especially at first. What fright-
ened her most was the duplicity of her father, at least
what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his
persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her
father _was a taciturn person as far back as she could
remember him best — on the Parades. It was she who
chattered, never troubling herself to discover whether
he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn't
fathom his thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him
Anthony with a forced friendly smile as if frozen to his
lips seemed only too thankful at not being made to

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 381

speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while
studying his hand so long that Flora had to recall him
to himself by a murmured 'Papa — your lead.' Then
he apologized by a faint as if inward ejaculation, 'Beg*
your pardon, Captain.' Naturally she addressed An-
thony as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This
was all the acting that was necessary to judge from the
wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at every ut-
tered 'Flora.' On hearing the rare 'Rodericks' he had
sometimes a scornful grimace as faint and faded and
colourless as his whole stiff personality.

"He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm.
With him too the life on board ship seemed to agree; but
from a sense of duty, of affection, or to placate his hid-
den fury, his daughter always accompanied him to his
state-room 'to make him comfortable.' She lighted
his lamp, helped him into his dressing-gown or got him a
book from a bookcase fitted in there — but this last
rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare 'I am no
reader ' with something like pride in his low tones. Very
often after kissing her good-night on the forehead he
would treat her to some such fretful remark: 'It's like
being in jail— 'pon my word. I suppose that man is
out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!'

"She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory
'How absurd.' But once, out of patience, she said
quite sharply 'Leave off. It hurts me. One would
think you hate me.'

"'It isn't you I hate,' he went on monotonously
breathing at her. 'No, it isn't you. But if I saw that
you loved that man I think I could hate you too.'

"That word struck straight at her heart. 'You
wouldn't be the first then,' she muttered bitterly. But
he was busy with his fixed idea and uttered an awfully
equable 'But you don't! Unfortunate girl!'

382 CHANCE

"She looked at him steadily for a time then said:

'"Good-night, papa.'

"As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited
for her alone at the table with the scattered cards,
glasses, water- jug, bottles and so on. He took no more
opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely
necessary for the edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent,
faithful woman; the wife of his still more excellent and
faithful steward. And Flora wished all these excellent
people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further;
and especially the nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown
with her beady, mobile eyes and her 'Yes, certainly,
ma'am,' which seemed to her to have a mocking sound.
And so this short trip — to the Western Islands only —
came to an end. It was so short that when young
Powell joined the Ferndale by a memorable stroke of
chance, no more than seven months had elapsed since
the — let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral
and his avatar into Mr. Smith.

"For the time the ship was loading in London An-
thony took a cottage near a little country station in
Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith's daughter.
It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary
for Mr. Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Per-
haps to some extent it was a judicious arrangement.
There were some obligations incumbent on the liber-
ated de Barral (in connection with reporting himself to
the police I imagine) which Mr. Smith was not anxious
to perform. De Barral had to vanish; the theory was
that de Barral had vanished, and it had to be upheld.
Poor Flora liked the country, even if the spot had noth-
ing more to recommend it than its retired character.

"Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but
as the station was a real wayside one, with no early

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 383

morning trains up, he could never stay for more than
the afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in
town so as to be early on board his ship. The weather
was magnificent and whenever the captain of the
Ferndale was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down
the road Mr. Smith would seize his stick and toddle
off for a solitary walk. But whether he would get
tired or because it gave him some satisfaction to see
'that man' go away — or for some cunning reason of his
own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's
departure. On approaching the cottage he would see
generally 'that man' lying on the grass in the orchard
at some distance from his daughter seated in a chair
brought out of the cottage's living-room. Invariably
Mr. Smith made straight for them and as invariably
had the feeling that his approach was not disturbing a
very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through
a silent hour or so, and then it would be time for An-
thony to go. Mr. Smith, perhaps from discretion,
would casually vanish a minute or so before, and then
watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room
'that man' take a lingering look outside the gate at
the invisible Flora, lift his hat, like a caller, and go off
down the road. Then only Mr. Smith would join his
daughter again.

"These were the bad moments for her. Not always,
of course, but frequently. It was nothing extraordi-
nary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently with some obser~
vation like this:

"'That man is getting tired of you.'

"He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It
was always 'that man.'

"Generally she would remain mute with wide-open
eyes gazing at nothing between the gnarled fruit trees.
Once, however, she got up and walked into the cottage.

384 CHANCE

Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged
it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone
so many ears used to bend eagerly to catch when it
came from the Great de Barral he said :

"'Let's get away.'

"She had the strength of mind not to spin round.
On the contrary she went on to a shabby bit of a mirror
on the wall. In the greenish glass her own face looked
far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the
bottom of a pool. She laughed faintly.

"'I tell you that man's getting '

"'Papa,' she interrupted him. 'I have no illusions
as to myself. It has happened to me before, but '

"Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in
with quite an unwonted animation. 'Let's make a
rush for it then.'

" Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness,
she turned round, sat down and allowed her astonish-
ment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, his knees
together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel
to each other and his hands resting on the arms of the
wooden arm-chair. His hair had grown long, his head
was set stiffly, there was something fatuously venerable
in his aspect.

You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I under-
stand your motive. And I have called you an unfortu-
nate girl. You are that as much as if you had gone on
the streets. Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I was
everlastingly being interrupted at the trial and I can't
stand it any more. I won't be interrupted by my own
child. And when I think that it is on the very day
before they let me out that you . . . '

"He had wormed this fact out of her by that time
because Flora had got tired of evading the question.
He had been very much struck and distressed. Was

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 385

r

that the trust she had in him? Was that a proof of
confidence and love? The very day before! Never
given him even half a chance. It was as at the trial.
They never gave him a chance. They would not give
him time. And there was his own daughter acting ex-
actly as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving
him time !

"The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled
her dismay to sleep. She listened to the unavoidable
things he was saying.

'"But what induced that man to marry you? Of
course he's a gentleman. One can see that. And that
makes it worse. Gentlemen don't understand anything
about city affairs — finance. Why! — the people who
started the cry after me were a firm of gentlemen.
The counsel, the judge — all gentlemen — quite out of it !
No notion of . . . And then he's a sailor too. Just
a skipper '

'"My grandfather was nothing else,' she interrupted.
And he made an angular gesture of impatience.

" ' Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business?
Nothing. No conception. He can have no idea of
what it means to be the daughter of Mr. de Barral —
even after his enemies had smashed him. What on
earth induced him ■'

"She made a movement because the level voice was
getting on her nerves. And he paused, but only to go
on again in the same tone with the remark:

"'Of course you are pretty. And that's why you
are lost — like many other poor girls. Unfortunate is
the word for you.'

" She said : ' It may be. Perhaps it is the right word ;
but listen, papa. I mean to be honest.'

"He began to exhale more speeches.

"'Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you

386 CHANCE

and go off with his beastly ship. And anyway you can
never be happy with him. Look at his face. I want
to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good
husband to your poor mother. She would have done
better to have left me long before she died. I have been
thinking it all over. I won't have you unhappy.'

"He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was
surprisingly noticeable. Then said, 'H'm! Yes. Let's
clear out before it is too late. Quietly, you and I.'

" She said as if inspired and with that calmness which
despair often gives : ' There is no money to go away with,
papa.'

"He rose up straightening himself as though he were
a hinged figure. She said decisively:

"'And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me,
papa?'

" ' Of course not,' sounded his subdued tone. And he
left her, gliding, away with his walk which Mr. Powell
described to me as being as level and wary as his voice.
He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on
his head.

"Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that
edifying conversation. His generosity might have
taken alarm at it and she did not want to be left behind
to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too
honest. She would be honest at whatever cost. She
would not be the first to speak. Never. And the
thought came into her head: 'I am indeed an unfortu-
nate creature!'

"It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony com-
ing for the afternoon two days later had a talk with Mr.
Smith in the orchard. Flora for some reason or other
had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that
opportunity to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said:
'It seems to me, sir, that you think Flora has not done

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 387

very well for herself. Well, as to that I can't say any-
thing. All I want you to know is that I have tried to
do the right thing.' And then he explained that he had
willed everything he was possessed of to her. 'She
didn't tell you, I suppose?'

"Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony,
trying to be friendly, was just saying that he proposed
to keep the ship away from home for at least two years:
'I think, sir, that from every point of view it would be
best,' when Flora came back and the conversation, cut
short in that direction, languished and died. Later in
the evening, after Anthony had been gone for hours, on
the point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith re-
marked suddenly to his daughter after a long period of
brooding:

"'A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes
another.' Then after reflecting for a minute he added
unemotionally :

"'One tells lies about it.'

"Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every
disgust to the point of wondering at herself, said : ' You
push your dislike of — of — Roderick too far, papa. You
have no regard for me. You hurt me.'

"He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying
her sometimes by the contrast of his placidity and
his words, turned away from her a pair of faded
eyes.

" 'I wonder how.far your dislike goes,' he began. 'His
very name sticks in your throat. I've noticed it. It
hurts me. What do you think of that? You might
remember that you are not the only person that's hurt
by your folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness.'
He brought back his eyes to her face. 'And the verv
day before they were going to let me out.' His feeble
voice failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips

388 CHANCE

only trembling for a time before he added with that
extraordinary equanimity of tone, 'I call it sinful.'

"Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler,
kinder and certainly safer to let him talk himself out.
This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, never took
very long to do. And we must not imagine that this
sort of thing went on all the time. She had a few good
days in that cottage. The absence of Anthony was a
relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was quieter.
He was quieter too. She was almost sorry when the
time to join the ship arrived. It was a moment of
anguish, of excitement; they arrived at the dock in the
evening and Flora after 'making her father comforta-
ble ' according to established usage lingered in the state-
room long enough to notice that he was surprised. She
caught his pale eyes observing her quite stonily. Then
she went out after a cheery good-night.

" Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the
saloon. Sitting in his arm-chair at the head of the
table he was picking up some business papers which he
put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked
her if her day, travelling up to town and then doing some
shopping, had tired her. She shook her head. Then
he wanted to know in a half-jocular way how she felt
about going away, and for a long voyage this time.

'"Does it matter how I feel?' she asked in a tone
that cast a gloom over his face. He answered with re-
pressed violence which she did not expect:

"'No, it does not matter, because T cannot go with-
out you. I've told you. . . . You know it. You
don't think I could.'

" ' I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade
my obligations,' she said steadily. 'Even if I could.
Even if I dared, even if I had to die for it! '

"He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 389

other at the end of the saloon. Anthony stuttered. ' Oh,
no. You won't die. You don't mean it. You have
taken kindly to the sea.'

"She laughed, but she felt angry.

'"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to
evade my obligations. I shall live on . . . feeling
a little crushed, nevertheless.'

Crushed ! ' he repeated. ' What's crushing you? '

"'Your magnanimity,' she said sharply. But her
voice was softened after a time. 'Yet I don't know.
There is a perfection in it — do you understand
me, Roderick? — which makes it almost possible to
bear.'

"He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was
time to put out the lamp in the saloon. The permission
was only till ten o'clock.

"'But you needn't mind that so much in your
cabin. Just see that the curtains of the ports are
drawn close and that's all. The steward might have
forgotten to do it. He lighted your reading-lamp in
there before he went ashore for a last evening with
his wife. I don't know if it was wise to get rid of
Mrs. Brown. You will have to look after yourself,
Flora.'

"He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact
congratulated herself on the absence of Mrs. Brown.
No sooner had she closed the door of her state-room
than she murmured fervently, 'Yes! Thank goodness,
she is gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed
by her appearance with her equivocal stare and the in-
tolerable: 'Can I do anything for you, ma'am?' which
poor Flora had learned to fear and hate more than any
voice or any words on board that ship — her only refuge
from the world which had no use for her, for her im-
perfections and for her troubles.

S90 CHANCE

"Mrs. Brown had been very mtich vexed at her dis-
missal. The Browns were a childless couple and the
arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their resent-
ment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain
ashore alone with her rage, but the steward was nursing
his on board. Poor Flora had no greater enemy, the
aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs.
Brown, with a woman's quick power of observation and
inference (the putting of two and two together), had
come to a certain conclusion which she had imparted
to her husband before leaving the ship. The morose
steward permitted himself once to make an allusion
to it in Powell's hearing. It was in the officers' mess-
room at the end of a meal while he lingered after putting
a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate started
a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain,
the sallow steward looking down with a sinister frown,
Franklin rolling upwards his eyes, sentimental in a
red face. Young Powell had heard a lot of that sort
of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous;
it had always sounded to him a little absurd. He
struck in impatiently with the remark that such lamen-
tations over a man merely because he had taken a wife
seemed to him like lunacy.

"Franklin muttered, 'Depends on what the wife is up
to.' The steward leaning against the bulkhead near
the door glowered at Powell, that new-comer, that igno-
ramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He
snarled —

" ' Wife ! Call her a wife, do you? '

"What the devil do you mean by this?' exclaimed
young Powell.

"'I know what I know. My old woman has not
been six months on board for nothing. You had better
3sk her when we get back.'

THE GREAT t>E BARRAL 391

"And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr.
Powell the steward retreated backwards.

"Our young friend turned at once upon the mate.
'And you let that confounded bottle-washer talk like
this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, I am astonished.'

"'Oh, it isn't what you think? It isn't what you
think.' Mr. Franklin looked more apoplectic than ever.
'If it comes to that I could astonish you. But it's
no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't
understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief.
There was a time, young fellow, when I would have
dared any man — any man, you hear? — to make mis-
chief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now.
Not now. There's a change ! Notin me though . . .'

" Young Powell rejected with indignation any sugges-
tion of making mischief. 'Who do you take me for?'
he cried. ' Only you had better tell that steward to be
careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks
for him for a month and will leave him to explain the
why of it to the captain the best way he can.'

"This speech established Powell as a champion of
Mrs. Anthony. Nothing more bearing on the question
was ever said before him. He did not care for the
steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational
even at the best of times and avoiding now the only
topic near his heart, addressed him only on matters of
duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very little.
The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him
long before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. There-
fore the little intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in
one dog-watch or the other was something to be looked
forward to. The captain did not mind it. That was
evident from his manner. One night he inquired
(they were then alone on the poop) what they had been
talking about that evening? Powell had tp confess

892 CHANCE

that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been
asking him questions.

"'Takes interest — eh?' jerked out the captain, mov-
ing rapidly up and down the weather side of the poop.

" ' Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonder-
fully of what one's telling her.'

"'Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old
sea-dog of the best kind, I believe,' ejaculated the
captain, swinging past his motionless second officer
and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks
succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, be-
cause, for the next two hours till he left the deck, he
didn't open his lips again.

"On another occasion ... we mustn't forget that
the ship had crossed the line and was adding up south
latitude every day by then ... on another occasion,
about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his
name uttered softly in the companion. The cap%in
was on the stairs, thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm
a Shetland wool wrap.

'"Mr. Powell— here.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting
chilly.' ,

"And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs.
Anthony was surprised on seeing the shawl.

"'The captain wants you to put this on,' explained
young Powell, and as she raised herself in her seat he
dropped it on her shoulders. She wrapped herself up
closely.

'"Where was the captain?' she asked.

"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose,'
said Powell, and then retreated discreetly, because she
looked as though she didn't want to talk any more
ihat evening. Mr. Smith — the old gentleman — was as

THE GREAT DE BARRAL S9S

usual sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding
over the long chair but by no means inimical, as far
as his unreadable face went, to those conversations
of the two youngest people on board. In fact they
seemed to give him some pleasure. Now and then he
would raise his faded china eyes to the animated face
of Mr. Powell thoughtfully. When the young sailor
was by, the old man became less rigid, and when his
daughter, on rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale
■of Mr. Powell, the inexpressive face of Mr. Smith re-
flected dimly that flash of evanescent mirth. For Mr.
P«well had come now to entertain his captain's wife
with anecdotes from the not very distant past when he
was a boy, on board various ships — funny things do
happen on board ship. Flora was quite surprised at
times to find herself amused. She was even heard to
laugh twice in the course of a month. It was not a
loud sound but it was startling enough at the after-
end of the Ferndale where low tones or silence was the
rule. The second time this happened the captain
himself must have been startled somewhere down be-
low; because he emerged from the depths of his un-
obtrusive existence and began his tramping on the
opposite side of the poop.

"Almost immediately he called his young second
officer over to him. This was not done in displeasure.
The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell conveyed a sort
of approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory
conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man
who could provoke such a sound near his person. Mr.
Powell felt himself liked. He felt it. Liked by that
haggard, restless man who threw at him disconnected
phrases to which his answers were, 'Yes, sir,' 'No,
sir,' 'Oh, certainly,' T suppose so, sir,' — and might
have been clearly anything else for all the other cared.

894 CHANCE

"It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered
ha himself an already old-established liking for Captain
Anthony. He also felt sorry for him without being
able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which
he had become so suddenly aware.

"Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as
though he had a hinged back, was speaking to his
daughter.

"She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if
she believed in — in hell. In eternal punishment?

" His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool,
was inaudible on the other side of the deck. Poor Flora,
taken very much unawares, made an inarticulate mur-
mur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the direc-
tion of the pacing Anthony who was not lookingherway.
It was no use glancing in that direction. Of young
Powell, leaning against the mizzen-mast and facing hft
captain, she could only see the shoulder and part of a
blue serge back.

"And the un worried, unaccented voice of her father
went on tormenting her.

"'You see, you must understand. When I came out
of jail it was with joy. That is, my soul was fairly
torn in two — but anyway to see you happy — I had made
up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you
were happy then of course I would have had no reason
to care for life — strictly speaking — which is all right for
an old man; though naturally ... no reason to
wish for death either. But this sort of life! What
sense, what meaning, what value has it either for you
or for me? It's just sitting down to look at the death
that's coming, coming. What else is it? I don't
know how you can put up with that. I don't think
you can stand it for long. Some day you will jump
overboard.'

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 395

" Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring
ahead from the break of the poop, and poor Flora sent
at his back a look of despairing appeal which would
have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had
done nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out
of the long chair and went towards the companion.
Her father followed carrying a few small objects, a hand-
bag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down to-
gether.

"It was only then that Captain Anthony turned,
looked at the place they had vacated and resumed his
tramping, but not his desultory conversation with his
second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so
much that now very often he used to lose control of his
voice. If he did not watch himself it would suddenly
die in his throat. He had to make sure before he ven-
tured on the simplest saying, an order, a remark on the
wind, a simple good morning. That's why his utter-
ance was abrupt, his answers to people startlingly
brusque and often not forthcoming at all.

"It happens to the most resolute of men to find him-
self at grips not only with unknown forces, but with a
well-known force the real might of which he had not
understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not
the proud master but the chafing captive of his generos-
ity. It rose in front of him like a wall which his respect
for himself forbade him to scale. He said to himself:
' Yes, I was a fool — but she has trusted me ! ' Trusted !
A terrible word to any man somewhat exceptional in a
world in which success has never been found in renunci-
ation and good faith. And it must also be said, in
order not to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than
he was, that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a dis-
tance. The girl was afraid to add to the exasperation
of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be made more

396 CHANCE

wretched by the only affection which she could not
suspect. She could not be angry with it, however, and
out of deference for that exaggerated sentiment she
hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth at the
man whose masterful compassion had carried her off.
And quite unable to understand the extent of Anthony's
delicacy, she said to herself that 'he didn't care.' He
probably was beginning at bottom to detest her — like
the governess, like the maiden lady, like the German
woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like Mr. Fyne — only he was
extraordinary, he was generous. At the same time she
had moments of irritation. He was violent, head-
strong — perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way.

"A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for
generally he finds that the way does not lead very far
on this earth of desires which can never be fully satisfied.
Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the
enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself 'At
last!' As to Armida herself, he was not going to offer
her any violence. But now he had discovered that all
the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida's
smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, un-
approachable, behind the blank wall of his renunciation.
His force, fit for action, experienced the impatience, the
indignation, almost the despair of his vitality arrested,
bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered away
by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which
seems inert and yet uses one's life up by its imper-
ceptible action, dropping minute after minute on one's
living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone.

"He upbraided himself. What else could he have
expected? He had rushed in like a ruffian; he had
dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair of her
head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really
atrocious. Nothing assured him that his person could

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 397

be attractive to this or any other woman. And his
proceedings were enough in themselves to make any
one odious. He must have been bereft of his senses.
She must fatally detest and fear him. Nothing could
make up for such brutality. And yet somehow he re-
sented this very attitude which seemed to him com-
pletely justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous
(morally) to be looked at frankly sometimes. But
no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some day . . .
Only he was not going over to attempt to beg for for-
giveness. With the repulsion she felt for his person she
would certainly misunderstand the most guarded words,
the most careful advances. Never! Never!

"It would occur to Anthony at the end of such medi-
tations that death was not an unfriendly visitor after
all. No wonder then that even young Powell, his
faculties having been put on the alert, began to think
that there was something unusual about the man who
had given him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his
captain was 'strange.' There was something wrong
somewhere, he said to himself, never guessing that his
young and candid eyes were in the presence of a passion
profound, tyrannical and mortal, discovering its own
existence, astounded at feeling itself helpless and dis-
mayed at finding itself incurable.

"Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasi-
ness so strongly as on that evening when it had been
his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh a little
by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he
had watched his captain walk the weather-side of the
poop, he took full cognizance of his liking for that in-
explicably strange man and saw him swerve towards
the companion and go down below with sympathetic
if utterly uncomprehending eyes.

"Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and

398 CHANCE

manifested a desire for a little conversation. He, too,
if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very com-
prehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He
often favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded
somewhat enigmatically and often without visible con-
nection to Mr. Powell's friendliness towards himseU
and his daughter. 'For I am well aware that we .have
no friends on board this ship, my dear young man,'
he would add, 'except yourself. Flora feels that too.'

"And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could
but emit a vague murmur of protest. For the state-
ment was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself
insignificant. The feelings of the ship's company
could not possibly matter to the captain's wife and to
Mr. Smith — her father. Why the latter should so
often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. Powell.
This was by no means the first occasion. More like
the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with
his monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and
looking at the water the other continued this conversa-
tion, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous
nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept
them for gruesome jesting.

"'For instance,' said Mr. Smith, 'that mate, Frank-
lin, I believe he would just as soon see us both over-
board as not.'

" 'It's not so bad as that,' laughed Mr. Powell, feeling
uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate
itself easily to exaggeration of statement. 'He isn't
a bad chap really,' he added, very conscious of Mr.
Franklin's offensive manner of which instances were
not far to seek. 'He's such a fool as to be jealous.
He has been with the captain for years. It's not for
me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled
all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot oi

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 399

pet old dogs. Wouldn't let anybody come near him
if they could help it. I've never seen anything like it.
And the second mate, I believe, was like that too.'

"'Well, he isn't here, luckily. There would have
been one more enemy,' said Mr. Smith. 'There's
enough of them without him. And you being here in-
stead of him makes it much more pleasant for my
daughter and myself. One feels there may be a friend
in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board
ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . .'

'"But Mrs. Anthony is not alone,' exclaimed Powell.
'There's you, and there's the . . .'

"Mr. Smith interrupted him.

" 'Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one
feels ashamed to live. Such an evening as this for
instance.'

"It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid
sunset had died out and the breath of a warm breeze
seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the
south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an
enormous lantern hidden under the horizon. In order
to change the conversation Mr. Powell said —

'"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah,
Mr. Smith. We have had a magnificent quick passage
so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I sup-
pose you are not sorry either.'

"This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith
emitted a sort of bitter chuckle and said: 'Jonah!
That's the fellow that was thrown overboard by some
sailors. It seems to me it's very easy at sea to get rid
of a person one does not like. The sea does not give
up its dead as the earth does.'

"'You forget the whale, sir,' said young Powell.

"Mr. Smith gave a start. 'Eh? What whale?
. Oh ! Jonah. I wasn't thinking of Jonah. I. was thinking

400 CHANCE

of this passage which seems so quick to you. But onli
think what it is to me ! It isn't a life, going about thi
sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fal
ill, there isn't a doctor to find out what's the matte
with one. It's worrying. It makes me anxious a
times.

"'Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?' asked Powell
But Mr. Smith's remark was not meant for Mrs
Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. Il
was the captain's health that did not seem quite satis
factory. Had Mr. Powell noticed his appearance?

"Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain tc
judge. He couldn't tell. But he observed thought-
fully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same thing,
And Franklin had known the captain for years. The
mate was quite worried about it.

"This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably.
'Does he think he is in danger of dying?' he exclaimed
with an animation quite extraordinary for him, which
horrified Mr. Powell.

'"Heavens! Die! No! Don't you alarm yourself,
sir. 'I've never heard a word about danger from Mr,
Franklin.'

"'Well, well,' sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop foi
the saloon rather abruptly.

"As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on decl
for some considerable time. He had come to relieve
young Powell; but seeing him engaged in talk with the
'enemy' — with one of the 'enemies' at least — had
kept at a distance, which, the poop of the Ferndale being
over seventy feet long, he had no difficulty in doing
Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the ladder leaning
on his elbow, melancholy and silent. 'Oh! Here
you are, sir.'

"'Here I am, Here I've been ever since six o'clock.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 401

Didn't want to interrupt the pleasant conversation.
If you like to put in half of your watch below jawing
with a dear friend, that's not my affair. Funny taste
though.'

"He isn't a bad chap,' said the impartial Powell.

"The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with
his foot; then : 'Isn't he? Well, give him my love when
you come together again for another nice long yarn.'

""I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't
take offence at your manners. '

'"The captain? I wish to goodness he would start a
row with me. Then I should know at least I am some-
body on board. I'd welcome it, Mr. Powell. I'd
rejoice. And dam' me I would talk back too till I
roused him. He's a shadow of himself. He walks
about his ship like a ghost. He's fading away right
before our eyes. But of course you don't see. You
don't care a hang. Why should you?'

"Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down
on the main deck. Without taking the mate's jeremiads
seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. Smith.
He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony.
There was something not only attractive but compelling
in the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to be-
lieve in the menace of death. Not in the fact itself,
but in its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking,
superior human being, showing no sign of disease.
And Mr. Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense.
But his curiosity was awakened. There was something,
and at any time some circumstance might occur . . .
No, he would never find out . . . There was nothing
to find out, most likely. Mr. Powell went to his room
where he tried to read a book he had already read a
good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers'
suppei.

CHAPTER SIX

... A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE
VERY DARK ON THE WATER

In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hack
ing at a piece of cold salt beef with a table knife. Th<
mate, fiery in the face and rolling his eyes over tha'
task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess
room could not be found. The steward, present also
complained savagely of the cook. The fellow goi
things into his galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklii
tried to pacify him with mournful firmness.

"'There, there! That will do. We who have beei
all these years together in the ship have other thing;
to think about than quarrelling among ourselves.'

"Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: 'Here h<
goes again,' for this utterance had nothing crypti<
for him. The steward having withdrawn morosely
he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usua
note. That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carriec
away (probably a defective link) and something liki
forty feet of chain and wire-rope, mixed up with a fe\>
heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on tin
poop with a terrifying racket.

" 'Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell? Di(
you notice?'

"Powell confessed frankly that he was too scarei
himself when all that lot of gear came down on dec]
to notice anything.

'"The gin-lock missed his head by an inch,' went oi

40?

"A MOONLESS NIGHT'* 403

the mate impressively. 'I wasn't three feet from him.
And what did he do? Did he shout, or jump, or even
look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming down too
about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it
didn't. No, he just stopped short — no wonder; he
must have felt the wind of that iron gin-lock on his
face — looked down at it, there, lying close to his foot —
and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink.
It isn't natural. The man is stupefied.'

"He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had sup-
pressed a grin, when the mate added as if he couldn't
contain himself: —

He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words.
That's the next thing.'

"Mr. Powell was disgusted.

"'You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't
seem to care what you say about him. I haven't been
with him for seven years, but I know he isn't the sort
of man that takes to drink. And then — why the devil
should he?'

"'Why the devil, you ask. Devil — eh? Well, no
man is safe from the devil — and that's answer enough
for you,' wheezed Mr. Franklin not unkindly. 'There
was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to
drink myself. What do you say to that? '

"Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The
thick, congested mate seemed on the point of bursting
with despondency. 'That was bad example though.
I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a
fool of myself — yes, as true as you see me sitting here.
Drank to forget. Thought it a great dodge. '

"Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awak-
ened interest and with that half-amused sympathy
with which we receive unprovoked confidences from
men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at

404 CHANCE

the same time he began to look upon him more seriously.
Experience has its prestige. And the mate con-
tinued —

"'If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have
gone to the devil. I remembered her in time. Nothing
like having an old lady to look after to steady a chap
and make him face things. But as bad luck would
ha™ it, Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a
blessed soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh,
aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a sister.
But she's married. She don't need him. Yes. In
the old days he used to talk to me as if we had been
brothers,' exaggerated the mate sentimentally. ' "Fran-
klin" — he would say — "this ship is my nearest relation
and she isn't likely to turn against me. And I suppose
you are the man I've known the longest in the world."
That's how he used to speak to me. Can I turn my
back on him? He has turned his back on his ship:
that's what it has come to. He has no one now but his
old Franklin. But what's a fellow to do to put things
back as they were and should be? Should be — I say!'

" His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's
irresistible thought, 'he resembles a boiled lobster in
distress,' was followed by annoyance. 'Good Lord,'
he said, 'you don't mean to hint that Captain Anthony
has fallen into bad company. What is it you want
to save him from?'

"'I do mean it,' affirmed the mate, and the very
absurdity of the statement made it impressive — because
it seemed so absolutely audacious. 'Well, you have
a cheek,' said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless.
'I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he
were to know how you carry on.'

"And welcome,' uttered the fervently devoted
Franklin. 'I am willing, if he would only clear the

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 405

ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a youngster
and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him
knock the stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think
it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together.
But of course you wouldn't. You are all right. Only
you don't know that things are sometimes different
from what they look. There are friendships that are
no friendships, and marriages that are no marriages.
. . . Phoo! Likely -to be right — wasn't it? Never
a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back,
there it is — all over, settled! Not a word beforehand.
No warning. If only: "What do you think of it,
Franklin?" — or anything of the sort. And that's a
man who hardly ever did anything without asking my
advice. Why ! He couldn't take over a new coat from
the tailor without . . . first thing, directly the fellow
came on board with some new clothes, whether in
London or in China, it would be: "Pass the word along
there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin wanted in the
cabin." In I would go. "Just look at my back,
Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?" And I would
say: "First rate, sir," or whatever was the truth of it.
That or anything else. Always the truth of it.
Always. And well he knew it; and that's why he dare
not speak right out. Talking about workmen, altera-
tions, cabins. . . . Phoo ! . . . instead of a straight-
forward — "Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!" Yes, that
was the way to let me know. God only knows what
they are — perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than
she is . . . She doesn't resemble that old fellow.
Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very awful. You may well
open your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake,
you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes
and ears open too in case — in case of ... I don't
know what. Anything. One wonders what can hap-

406 CHANCE

pen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called
a jailer behind his back.'

"Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment
and Powell shut his mouth, which indeed had been
open. He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly.
'The mate's crazy,' he thought. It was his firm con-
viction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner
tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy
of this craze. He couldn't dismiss it with the contempt
it deserved. Had the word 'jailer' really been pro-
nounced? A strange word for the mate to even im-
agine he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word.
But this word being the only clear and definite state-
ment in these grotesque and dismal ravings was com-
paratively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on
it still when he came up at eight o'clock to take charge
of the deck. It was a moonless night, thick with stars
above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the
west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both
watches in low tones as if for a funeral, then approach-
ing Powell —

"'The course is east-south-east,' said the chief mate
distinctly.

"'East-south-east, sir.'

"'Everything's set, Mr. Powell.'

"'All right, sir.'

"The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed
silvery in the shadowy face. 'A quiet night before us.
I don't know that there are any special orders. A
settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see the
captain. Once upon a time this was the watch he
used to come up and start a chat with either of us then
on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-cabin
and mopes. Jailer — eh?'

"Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 407

at some distance said, 'Damn!' quite heartily. It was
a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to be funny;
that hostile word 'jailer' had given the situation an
air of reality.

"Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disap-
peared from the poop to seek its needful repose, if only
the beworried soul would let it rest awhile. Mr. Powell,
half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether
it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the
charm of a quiet watch on deck when one may let "one's
thoughts roam in space and time had been spoiled
without remedy. What shocked him most was the
implied aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony.
It angered him. In his own words to me, he felt very
'enthusiastic' about Mrs. Anthony. 'Enthusiastic'
is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to
me what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he
says. That silly Franklin must have been dreaming.
That was it. He had dreamed it all. Ass. Yet the
injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associ-
ated ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very un-
comfortable. And just then (it might have been half
an hour or more since he had relieved Franklin), just
then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a
gliding shadow, and leaned over the rail by his side.
Young Powell was affected disagreeably by his pres-
ence. He made a movement to go away but the other
began to talk — and Powell remained where he was as
if retained by a mysterious compulsion. The conversa-
tion started by Mr. Smith had nothing peculiar. He
began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end
seemed anxious to discover what were the services from
Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. Powell did not know
for certain but imagined that there must be communica-

408 CHANCE

tion with England at least twice a month. 'Are you
thinking of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam?
Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony,' he asked anxiously.

"'No! No! How can I?' Mr. Smith got quite
agitated, for him, which did not amount to much. He
was just asking for the sake of something to talk about.
No idea at all of going home. One could not always
do what one wanted and that's why there were mo-
ments when one felt ashamed to live. This did not
mean that one did not want to live. Oh, no !

" He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently
and in such a low voice that Powell had to strain his
hearing to catch the phrases dropped overboard as it
were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort.
It was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret
train of thought far removed from the idle words we
so often utter only to keep in touch with our fellow
beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr.
Smith could not make up his mind to go below. He
repeated himself. Again he spoke of lives which one
was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such
lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue.
He even alluded once more to mail-boat services on
the East coast of Africa and young Powell had to tell
him once more that he knew nothing about them.

"'Every fortnight, I thought you said,' insisted Mr.
Smith. He stirred, seemed to detach himself from the
rail with difficulty. His long, slender figure straight-
ened into stiffness, as if hostile to the enveloping soft
peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a
weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word
'Abominable' repeated three times, but which passed
into the faintly louder declaration: 'The moment has
come — to go to bed,' followed by a just audible sigh.

" 'I sleep very well,' added Mr. Smith in his restrained

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 409

tone. 'But it is the moment one opens one's eyes that
is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, these days! I
wonder how anybody can . . .'

'"I like the life,' observed Mr. Powell.

"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of.
You have made your bed. Well, it's very pleasant to
feel that you are friendly to us. My daughter has taken
quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell.'

"He murmured, ' Good-night ' andglided away rigidly.
Young Powell asked himself with some distaste what
was the meaning of these utterances. His mind had
been worried at last into that questioning attitude by
no other person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion
was not natural to him. And he took good care to
carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony from
this man of enigmatic words — her father. Presently
he observed that the sheen of the two deck dead-lights
of Mr. Smith's room had gone out. The old gentleman
had been surprisingly quick in getting into bed. Shortly
afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of the
saloon was turned out; and this was the sign that the
steward had taken in the tray and had retired for the
night.

"Young Powell had settled down to the regular
officer-of-the-watch tramp in the dense shadow of the
world decorated with stars high above his head, and
on earth only a few gleams of light about the ship.
The lamp in the after skylight was kept burning through
the night. There were also the dead-lights of the stern-
cabins glimmering dully in the deck far aft, catching
his eye when he turned to walk that way. The brasses
of the wheel glittered too, with the dimly lit figure of
the man detached, as if phosphorescent, against the
black and spangled background of the horizon.

"Young Powell^ in the silence of the ship, reinforced

410 CHANCE

by the great silent stillness of the world, said to himself
that there was something mysterious in such beings
as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings as
himself. It was a strange and almost improper thought
to occur to the officer of the watch of a ship on the high
seas on no matter how quiet a night. Why on earth
was he bothering his head? Why couldn't he dismiss
all these people from his mind? It was as if the mate
had infected him with his own diseased devotion. He
would not have believed it possible ■ that he should
be so foolish. But he was — clearly. He was foolish
in a way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this
self -analysis further, he reflected that the springs of his
conduct were just as obscure.

" 'I may be catching myself any time doing things of
which I have no conception,' he thought. And as he was
passing near the mizzen-mast he perceived a coil of rope
left lying on the deck by the oversight of the sweepers. ,
By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he
stooped as he went by with the intention of picking it
up and hanging it up on its proper pin. This movement
brought his head down to the level of the glazed end
of the after skylight — the lighted skylight of the most
private part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusive-
ness of Captain Anthony's married life; the part, let
me remind you, cut off from the rest of that forbidden
space by a pair of heavy curtains. I mention these
curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself re-
called the existence of that unusual arrangement to my
mind.

"He recalled them with simple-minded compunction
at that distance of time. He said: 'You understand
that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of running
gear — the spanker foot-outhaul, it was — I perceived
that I could see right into that part of the saloon the

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 411

curtains were meant to make particularly private.
Do you understand me?' he insisted.

"I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to
call my attention to the wonderful linking up of small
facts, with something of awe left yet, after all these
years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, provi-
dence, call it what you will! 'For, observe, Marlow,'
he said, making at me very round eyes which contrasted
funnily with the austere touch of grey on his temples,
'observe, my dear fellow, that everything depended on
the men who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving
that coil of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie
carrying away in a most incomprehensible and sur-
prising manner earlier in the day, and the end of the
chain whipping round the coaming and shivering to
bits the coloured glass-pane at the end of the skylight.
It had the arms of the city of Liverpool on it; I don't
know why unless because the Ferndale was registered
in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. Anyhow,
the upper part got smashed, and directly we had at-
tended to things aloft Mr. Franklin had set the car-
penter to patch up the damage with some pieces of plain
glass. I don't know where they got them; I think the
people who fitted up new bookcases in the captain's
room had left some spare panes. Chips was there the
whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and
red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was done, not
by any means, but it would serve to keep the weather
out and let the light in. Clear glass. And of course I
was not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick up that
rope and found my head within three inches of that
clear glass and — dash it all ! I found myself out. Not
half an hour before I was saying to myself that it was
impossible to tell what was in people's heads or at the
back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to.

VvXl£i.J.>l y^iu

And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can
well think of. For, after I had stooped, there I re-
mained prying, spying, anyway looking, where I had
no business to look. Not consciously at first, maybe.
He who has eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from
seeing things as long as there are things to see in front
of him. What I saw at first was the end of the table
and the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for sea use,
fitted with holders for a couple of decanters, water- jug
and glasses. The glitter of these things caught my
eye first; but what I saw next was the captain down
there, alone as far as I could see; and I could see pretty
well the whole of that part up to the cottage piano,
dark against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead.
And I remained looking. I did. And I don't know
that I was ashamed of myself either, then. It was the
fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, mak-
ing free with him to that extent that really he seemed
to have become our property, his and mine, in a way.
It's funny, but one had that feeling about Captain
Anthony. To watch him was not so much worse than
listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, it's no
use making excuses for what's inexcusable. I watched;
but I dare say you know that there could have been
nothing inimical in this low behaviour of mine. On
the contrary. I'll tell you now what he was doing.
He was helping himself out of a decanter. I saw every
movement, and I said to myself mockingly as though
jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, "Hallo! Here's
the captain taking to drink at last." He poured a
little brandy or whatever it was into a long glass, filled
it with water, drank about a fourth of it and stood the
glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drink-
ing bout, I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused
at the notions of that Franklin, He seemed to me an

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 413

enormous ass, with his jealousy and his fears. At
that rate a month would not have been enough for any-
body to get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the
swivel arm-chairs fixed around the table; I had him right
under me and as he turned the chair slightly, I was look-
ing, I may say, dcwn his back. He took another little
sip and then reached for a book which was lying on
the table. I had not noticed it before. Altogether
the proceedings of a desperate drunkard — weren't
they? He opened the book and held it before his face.
If this was the way he took to drink, then I needn't
worry. He was in no danger from that, and as to any
other, I assure you no human being could have looked
safer than he did down there. I felt the greatest con-
tempt for Franklin just then, while I looked at Captain
Anthony sitting there with a glass of weak brandy-and-
water at his elbow and reading in the cabin of his ship,
on a quiet night — the quietest, perhaps the finest, of a
prosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't
leave off my ugly spying I will tell you how it was.
Captain Anthony was a great reader just about that
time; and I, too, I have a great liking for books. To
this day I can't come near a book but I must know what
it is about. It was a thickish volume he had there,
small close print, double columns — I can see it now.
What I wanted to make out was the title at the top
of the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn't
holding it conveniently — I mean for me up there.
Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I read,
and then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the
table, jumps up as if something had bitten him and
walks away aft.

" ' Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly
and aware of it in a way, but I didn't feel really ashamed
till the frieht of being found out in my honourable occu-

414 CHANCE

pation drove me from it. I slunk away to the forward
end of the poop and lounged about there, my face and
ears burning, and glad it was a dark night, expecting
every moment to hear the captain's footsteps behind
me. For I made sure he was coming on deck. Pres-
ently I thought I had rather meet him face to face and
I walked slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from
the companion before I got that far. I even thought
of his having detected me by some means. But it was
impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head.
I had never had a view of his face down there. It was
impossible; I was safe; and I felt very mean, yet, ex-
plain it as you may, I seemed not to care. And the
captain not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go
on being mean. I wanted another peep. I really
don't know what was the beastly influence except that
Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to demoralize any man
by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away
in my case with all the restraints of common decency.

"'I did not mean to run the risk of being caught
squatting in a suspicious attitude by the captain.
There was also the helmsman to consider. So what I
did — I am surprised at my low cunning — was to sit
down naturally on the skylight-seat and then by bend-
ing forward I found that, as I expected, I could look
down through the upper part of the end-pane. The
worst that could happen to me then, if I remained
too long in that position, was to be suspected by the
seaman aft at the wheel of having gone to sleep there.
For the rest my ears would give me sufficient warning
of any movements in the companion.

"But in that way my angle of view was changed.
The field too was smaller. The end of the table, the
tray and the swivel-chair I had right under my eyes.
The captain had not come back yet. The piano I

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 415

could not see now; but on the other hand I had a very
oblique downward view of the curtains drawn across
the cabin and cutting off the forward part of it just
about the level of the skylight-end and only an inch
or so from the end of the table. They were heavy
stuff, travelling on a thick brass rod with some contriv-
ance to keep the rings from sliding to and fro when
the ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still
almost as a model shut up in a glass case while the
curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on purpose, made
a little too long, moved no more than a solid wall.'"

Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was
getting on to what I may call its deepest hour, the hour
most favourable to evil purposes of men's hate, despair
or greed — to whatever can whisper into their ears the
unlawful counsels of protest against things that are; the
hour of ill-omened silence and chill and stagnation, the
hour when the criminal plies his trade and the victim
of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of dreadful dis-
couragement; the hour before the first sign of dawn. I
know it, because while Marlow was crossing the room,
I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. He however
never looked that way though it is possible that he, too,
was aware of the passage of time. He sat down heavily.

"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very
anxious that I should understand the topography of that
cabin. I was interested more by its moral atmosphere,
that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which
tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the mag-
nanimous Anthony had carried off his conquest and — well
— his self-conquest too, trying to act at the same time
like a beast of prey s a pure spirit and the 'most generous
of men.' Too big an order clearly because he was
nothing of a monster but just a common mortal, a little

416 CHANCE

more self-willed and self-confident than most, maybe,
both in his roughness and in his delicacy.

"As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings I'll
say nothing. He found a sort of depraved excitement
in watching an unconscious man — and such an attrac-
tive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that.
He wanted another peep at him. He surmised that
the captain must come back soon because of the glass
two-thirds full and also of the book put down so brus-
quely. God knows what sudden pang had made An-
thony jump up so. I am convinced he used reading as
an opiate against the pain of his magnanimity which
like all abnormal growths was gnawing at his healthy
substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had
rushed into his cabin simply to groan freely in absolute
and delicate secrecy. At any rate he tarried there.
And young Powell would have grown weary and com-
punctious at last if it had not become manifest to him
that he had not been alone in the highly incorrect occu-
pation of watching the movements of Captain Anthony.

"Powell explained to me that no sound did or per-
haps could reach him from the saloon. The first sign —
and we must remember that he was using his eyes
for all they were worth — was an unaccountable move-
ment of the curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just
perceptible in fact to the sharpened faculties of a secret
watcher; for it can't be denied that our wits are much
more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which one
mustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation.

"He became suspicious, with no one and nothing
definite in his mind. He was suspicious of the curtain
itself and observed it. It looked very innocent. Then
just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of imagina-
tion he saw trembling movements where the two curtains
joined. Yes! Somebody else besides himself had

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 417

been watching Captain Anthony. He owns artlessly
that this roused his indignation. It was really too
much of a good thing. In this state of intense antago-
nism he was startled to observe tips of fingers fumbling
with the dark stuff. Then they grasped the edge of
the further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and
knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable
sight. He was looking at it with unaccountable re-
pulsion when a hand came into view; a short, puffy,
old freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed
by a white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the
elbow, beyond the elbow, extended tremblingly towards
the tray. Its appearance was weird and nauseous,
fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle
as Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senile
eagerness, swerved to the glass, rested on its edge for a
moment (or so it looked from above) and went back
with a jerk. The gripping fingers of the other hand
vanished at the same time, and young Powell, staring,
at the motionless curtains, could indulge for a moment
the notion that he had been dreaming.

"But that notion did not last long. Powell, after re-
pressing his first impulse to spring for the companion
and hammer at the captain's door, took steps to have
himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state
of distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his
mind. He remained on the skylight so as to keep his
eye on the tray.

"Still the captain did not appear in the saloon.
'If he had,' said Mr. Powell, 'I knew what to do. I
would have put my elbow through the pane instantly —
crash.'

"I asked him why?

"'It was the quickest dodge for getting him away
from that tray,' he explained. 'My throat was so dry

418 CHANCE

' that I didn't know if I could shout loud enough. And
this was not a case for shouting, either.'

"The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on
the poop, found the second officer doubled up over the
end of the skylight in a pose which might have been
that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed
that the man, though naturally vexed at being turned
out, made no comment on the plea of sudden indisposi-
tion which young Powell put forward.

"The rapidity with which the sick man got off
the poop must have astonished the boatswain. But
Powell, at the moment he opened the door leading into
the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to con-
trol his agitation. He entered swiftly, but without
noise and found himself in the dark part of the saloon,
the strong sheen of the lamp on the other side of the
curtains visible only above the rod on which they ran.
The door of Mr. Smith's cabin was in that dark part.
He passed by it assuring himself by a quick side glance
that it was imperfectly closed. 'Yes,' he said to me.
'The old man must have been watching through the
crack. Of that I am certain; bul it was not for me
that he was watching and listening. Horrible! Surely
he must have been startled to hear and see somebody
he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why
I was coming in but I suppose he must have been con-
cerned.' Concerned indeed! He must have been
thunderstruck, appalled.

"Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the sus-
pected tumbler. He had no other plan, no other inten-
tion, no other thought. Do away with it in some
manner. Snatch it up and run out with it.

"You know that complete mastery of one fixed
idea, not a reasonable but an emotional mastery, a sort
of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire men

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 419

rush blindly through fire and water and opposing
violence, and nothing can stop them — unless, sometimes,
a grain of sand. For this blind purpose (and clearly
the thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it)
Mr. Powell had plenty of time. What checked him
at the crucial moment was the familiar, harmless aspect
of common things, the steady light, the open book on
the table, the solitude, the peace, the home-like effect
of the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he had
to do was to vanish back beyond the curtains, flee with
it noiselessly into the night on deck, fling it unseen
overboard. A minute or less. And then all that
would have happened would have been the wonder
at the utter disappearance of a glass tumbler, a ridicu-
lous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit of any one
on board to solve. The grain of sand against which
Powell stumbled in his headlong career was a moment
of incredulity as to the truth of his own conviction
because it had failed to affect the safe aspect of familiar
things. He doubted his eyes too. He must have
dreamt it all! 'I am dreaming now,' he said to himself.
And very likely for a few seconds he must have looked
like a man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his feet,
and with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand.

"What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his
feet immovably to the spot, was a voice asking him
what he was doing there in tones of thunder. Or so it
sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his
stern-cabin, had naturally exclaimed. What else could
you expect? And the exclamation must have been fairly
loud if you consider the nature of the sight which met
his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer, a
seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being on
duty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the saloon,
apparently for the inexpressibly mean purpose of drink-

420 CHANCE

ing up what was left of his captain's brandy-and-water.
There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his
hand.

"But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced
Anthony after the first exclamation; and young Powell
felt himself pierced through and through by the over-
shadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced
quietly. The first impulse of Mr. Powell, when dis-
covered, had been to dash the glass on the deck. He
was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his
wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he
could prove nothing and that the story he had to tell
was completely incredible, restrained him. The cap-
tain came forward slowly. With his eyes now close to
his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to
lift one finger to the deck above mumbling the explana-
tory words, 'Boatswain on the poop.'

" The captain moved his head slightly as much as to
say, 'That's all right' — and this was all. Powell had
no voice, no strength. The air was unbreathable, thick,
sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all movements
became difficult. He raised the glass a little with im-
mense difficulty and moved his trammelled lips suffi-
ciently to form the words —

"'Doctored.'

"Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an
instant, and again fastened his eyes on the face of his
second mate. Powell added a fervent 'I believe' and
put the glass down on the tray. The captain's glance
followed the movement and returned sternly to his
face. The young man pointed a finger once more up-
wards and squeezed out of his iron-bound throat six
consecutive words of further explanation: 'Through
the skylight. The white pane.'

"The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this,

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 421

while young Powell, ashamed but desperate, nodded
insistently several times. He meant to say that: Yes.
Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying.
. . . The captain's gaze became thoughtful. And,
now the confession was over, the iron-bound feeling
of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a general
anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all
the limbs and organs of his body. His legs trembled
a little, his vision was confused, his mind became
blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At a
movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled
whisper.

"'Don't, sir! Don't touch it.'

"The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm,
took up the glass and raised it slowly against the lamp-
light. The liquid, of very pale amber colour, was clear,
and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell's
attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the
word 'dissolved,' but he only thought of it with great
energy which however failed to move his lips. Only
when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to
him he recovered such a complete command of his
voice that he could keep it down to a hurried, forcible
whisper — a whisper that shook him.

"'Doctored!. I swear it! I have seen. Doctored!
I have seen.'

"Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His
was a calm to take one's breath away. It did so to
young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony made
himself heard to the point.

'"You did! . . . Who was it?'

"And Powell gasped freely at last. *A hand,' he
whispered fearfully, 'a hand and the arm — only the
arm — like that.'

''He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous ip

422 CHANCE

faithful reproduction, the tips of two fingers and the
thumb pressed together and hovering above the glass
for an instant — then the swift jerk back, after the deed.

."'Like that,' he repeated, growing excited. 'From
behind this.' He grasped the curtain and glaring at
the silent Anthony flung it back disclosing the forepart
of the saloon. There was no one to be seen.

"Powell had not expected to see anybody. 'But,'
he said to me, 'I knew very well there was an ear listen-
ing and an eye glued to the crack of a cabin door. Awfih
thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon
remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain.
I pointed at it and I suppose that old man inside saw
me pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-
command. You couldn't have guessed anything from
his face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than
usual. And indeed this was something to think about.
But I couldn't think steadily. My brain would give
a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all
notion of time, and I might have been looking at the
captain for days and months for all I knew before I
heard him whisper to me fiercely: "Not a word!" This
jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said, "No!
No! I didn't mean even you."

"'I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions,
but I read in his eyes that he understood me and I was
only too glad to leave off. And there we were looking
at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question
"What next?"

"'I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till
I saw him suddenly fling his head to the right and to the
left fiercely, like a wild animal at bay not knowing
which way to break out. ..."

"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 423

not a bad comparison; a better one than Mr. Powell
was aware of. At that moment the appearance of
Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking
point. She came out in all innocence but not without
vague dread. Anthony's exclamation on first seeing
Powell had reached her in her cabin, where, it seems,
she was brushing her hair. She had heard the very
words. 'What are you doing here?' And the un-
wonted loudness of the voice — his voice — breaking
the habitual stillness of that hour would have startled
a person having much less reason to be constantly
apprehensive, than the captive of Anthony's masterful
generosity. She had no means to guess to whom the
question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as
Anthony's voice always did. Followed complete silence.
She waited, anxious, expectant, till she could stand the
strain no longer, and with the weary mental appeal of
the overburdened, 'My God! What is it now?' she
opened the door of her room and looked into the saloon .
Her first glance fell on Powell. For a moment, seeing
only the second officer with Anthony, she felt relieved
and made as if to draw back; but her sharpened per-
ception detected something suspicious in their attitudes,
and she came forward slowly.

" 'I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony,' related Powell,
'because I was facing aft. The captain, noticing my
eyes, looked quickly over his shoulder and at once put
his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I were likely
to let out anything before her ! Mrs. Anthony had on a
dressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a
thick red cor,d round her waist. Her hair was down.
She looked a child; a pale-faced child with big blue eyes
and a red mouth a little open showing a glimmer of
white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she came
Up to the end of the table. A strange child though; she

424 k CHANCE

hardly affected one like a child, I remember. Do you
know,' exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must have
been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, 'do
you know what she looked like to me with those big
eyes and something appealing in her whole expression?
She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had
moved towards her to keep her away from my end of
the table, where the tray was. I had never seen them
so near to each other before, and it made a great con-
trast. It was wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a
point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and
his lean head there was something African, something
Moorish in Captain Anthony. His neck was bare;
he had taken off his coat and collar and had drawn on
his sleeping-jacket in the time that he had been absent
from the saloon. I seem to see him now. Mrs. An-
thony too. She looked from him to me — I suppose
I looked guilty or frightened — and from me to him,
trying to guess what there was between us two. Then
she burst out with a "What has happened?" which
seemed addressed to me. I mumbled "Nothing!
Nothing, ma'am," which she very likely did not hear.
"'You must not think that all this had lasted a long
time. She had taken fright at our behaviour and
turned to the captain pitifully. "What is it you are
concealing from me?" A straight question — eh? I
don't know what answer the captain would have made.
Before he could even raise his eyes to her she cried out :
"Ah! Here's papa!" in a sharp tone of relief, but di-
rectly afterwards she looked to me, as if she were holding
her breath, with apprehension. I was so. interested in
her that, how shall I say it, her exclamation made no
sonnection in my brain at first. I also noticed that
she had sidled up a little nearer to Captain Anthony,
before it occurred to me to turn my head. I can

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 425

tell you my neck stiffened in the twisted position from
the shock of actually seeing that old man! He had
dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked
upon him as mad. But I couldn't. It would have been
certainly easier. But I could not. You should have
seen him. First of all he was completely dressed with
his very cap still on his head just as when he left me on
deck two hours before, saying in his soft voice: "The
moment has come to go to bed" — while he meant to go
and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, and
watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder ran down
my back. He had his hands in the pockets of his
jacket, his arms were pressed close to his thin, upright
body, and he shuffled across the cabin with his short
steps. There was a red patch on each of his old soft
cheeks as if somebody had been pinching them. He
drooped his head a little, and looked with a sort of
underhand expectation at the captain and Mrs. An-
thony standing close together at the other end of the
saloon. The calculating horrible impudence of it!
His daughter was there; and I am certain he had seen
the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn me.
And then he had coolly come out! He passed my im-
agination, I assure you. After that one shiver his
presence killed every faculty in me — wonder, horror,
indignation. I felt nothing in particular just as if he
were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me
familiarly every day on deck. Would you believe it?'
"Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this
internal phenomenon," went on Marlow after a slight
pause. "But even if they had not been fully engaged,
together with all my powers of attention in following
the facts of the case, I would not have been astonished
by his statements about himself. Taking into consider-
ation his youth they were by no means incredible; or.

426 CHANCE

at any rate, they were the least incredible part of the
whole. They were also the least interesting part,
"^he interest was elsewhere, and there of course all he
could do was to look at the surface. The inwardness
of what was passing before his eyes was hidden from
him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from
me who at a distance of years was listening to his words.
What presently happened at this crisis in Flora de
Barral's fate was beyond his power of comment,
seemed in a sense natural. And his own presence on
the scene was so strangely motived that it was left for
me to marvel alone at this young man, a completely
chance-comer, having brought it about on that night.

"Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has
its psychological moment. The behaviour of young
Powell with its mixture of boyish impulses combined
with instinctive prudence, had not created it — I can't
say that — but had discovered it to the very people
involved. What would have happened if he had made
a noise about his discovery? But he didn't. His
head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he behaved with a
discretion beyond his years. Some nice children often
do ; and surely it is not from reflection. They have their
own inspirations. * Young Powell's inspiration consisted
in being 'enthusiastic' about Mrs. Anthony. 'En-
thusiastic' is really good. And he was amongst them
like a child, sensitive, impressionable, plastic — but
unable to find for himself any sort of comment.

"I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I
believe that just then the tension of the false situation
was at its highest. Of all the forms offered to us by
life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it fully,
which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate
of mankind. And if two beings thrown together, mu-
tually attracted, resist the necessity, fail in understand-

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 427

ing and voluntarily stop short of the — the embrace,
in the noblest meaning of the word, then they are
committing a sin against life, the call of which is simple.
Perhaps sacred. And the punishment of it is an in-
vasion of complexity, a tormenting, forcibly tortuous
involution of feelings, the deepest form of suffering from
which indeed something significant may come at last,
which may be criminal or heroic, may be madness or
wisdom — or even a straight if despairing decision.

"Powell on taking his eyes of! the old gentleman
noticed Captain Anthony, swarthy as an African, by
the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take his handker-
chief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish
— like a man who is overcome. 'And no wonder,'
commented Mr. Powell here. Then the captain said,
'Hadn't you better go back to your room?' This was
to Mrs. Anthony. He tried to smile at her. 'Why
do you look startled? This night is like any other
night.'

"'Which,' Powell again commented to me earnestly
'was a lie. . . . No wonder he sweated.' You see
from this the value of Powell's comments. Mrs.
Anthony then said: 'Why are you sending me away?'

"'Why! That you should go to sleep. That you
should rest.' And Captain Anthony frowned. Then
sharply, 'You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want you
presently.' As a matter of fact Powell had not
moved. Flora did not mind his presence. He himself
had the feeling of being of no account to those three
people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed
as the proverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony
glanced at him. She did not move, gripped by an
inexplicable premonition. She had arrived at the very
limit of her endurance as the object of Anthony's
magnanimity; she was the prey of an intuitive dread of

428 ' CHANCE

she did not know what mysterious influence; she felt
herself being pushed back into that solitude, that
moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable.
And then, in that close communion established again
with Anthony, she felt — as on that night in the garden
• — the force of his personal fascination. The passive
quietness with which she looked at him gave her the
appearance of a person bewitched — or say, mesmerically
put to sleep — beyond any notion of her surroundings.

"After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain
remained silent. Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back
her loose hair with a decisive gesture of her arms and
moved still nearer to him. 'Here's papa up yet,' she
said, but she did not look towards Mr. Smith. 'Why
is it? And you? I can't go on like this, Roderick —
between you two. Don't.'

"Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied
his tongue.

"'Oh, yes. Here's your father. And . . . Why
not? Perhaps it is just as well you came out. Between
us two? Is that it? I won't pretend I don't under-
stand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer
for what I haven't got. I don't know what you imagine
has happened. Something has though. Only you
needn't be afraid. No shadow can touch you — because
I give up. I can't say we had much talk about it,
your father and I, but, the long and the short of it is
that I must learn to live without you — which I have
told you was impossible. I was speaking the truth.
But I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes.
You shall go.'

"At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me)
was listening with uncomprehending awe, heard behind
his back a triumphant chuckling sound. It gave him
the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 429

time, except for another chill down the spine, it had not
the power to destroy his absorption in the scene before
his eyes, and before his ears too, because just then Cap-
tain Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he too
had heard the chuckle of the old man.

"'Your father has found an argument which makes
me pause, if it does not convince me. No! I can't
answer it. I — I don't want to answer it. I simply
surrender. He shall have his way with you — and with
me. Only,' he added in a gloomy lowered tone which
struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal had been put down, 'only
it will take a little time. I have never lied to you.
Never. I renounce not only my chance but my life.
In a few days, directly we get into port, the very mo-
ment we do, I, who have said I could never let you go, I
shall let you go.'

"To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this
point to become physically exhausted. My view is that
the utter falseness of his, I may say, aspirations, the
vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him with
an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before
the other's mad and sinister sincerity. As he had said
himself he could not fight for what he did not possess;
he could not face such a thing as this for the sake of his
mere magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome
the abnormal. He could not even reproach that man
over there. 'I own myself beaten,' he said in a firmer
tone. 'You are free. I let you off since I must.'

"Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incompre-
hensible words Mrs. Anthony stiffened into the very
image of astonishment, with a frightened stare and
frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her
heart, not very loud but of a quality which made not only
Captain Anthony (he was not looking at her), not only
him but also the more distant (and equally unprepared)

430 CHANCE

young man, catch their breath: 'But I don't want to
be let off,' she cried.

"She was so still that one asked oneself whether the
cry had come from her. The restless shuffle behind
Powell's back stopped short, the intermittent shadowy
chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round,
saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very
still, puckered at the corners, like a man perceiving
something coming at him from a great distance. And
Mrs. Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears, entreating
and indignant.

"'You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I
won't go away from you. I won't '

"Powell turned about and discovered then that what
Mr. Smith was puckering his eyes at, was the sight of
his daughter clinging round Captain Anthony's neck — ■
a sight not in itself improper, but which had the power
to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emo-
tion. It was different from his emotion while spying
at the revelations of the skylight, but in this case too he
felt the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen be-
holder. Experience was being piled up on his young
shoulders. Mrs. Anthony's hair hung back in a dark
mass like the hair of a drowned woman. She looked as
if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain
were to. withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain
obviously had no such intention. Standing firm and
still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. Smith. For a
time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's daugh-
ter was the only sound to trouble the silence. The
strength of Anthony's clasp pressing Flora to, his breast
could not be doubted even at that distance, and sud-
denly, awakening to his opportunity, he began to partly
support her, partly carry her in the direction of her
cabin. His head was bent over her solicitously, then

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 431

recollecting himself, with a glance full of unwonted
fire, his voice ringing in a note unknown to Mr. Powell,
he cried to him, 'Don't you go on deck yet. I want you
to stay down here till I come back. There are some
instructions I want to give you.'

"And before the young man could answer, Anthony
had disappeared in the stern-cabin, burdened and
exulting.

"'Instructions,' commented Mr. Powell. 'That was
all right. Very likely; but they would be such instruc-
tions as, I thought to myself, no ship's officer perhaps
had ever been given before. It made me feel a little
sick to think what they would be dealing with, prob-
ably. But there! Everything that happens on board
ship on the high seas has got to be dealt with somehow.
There are no special people to fly to for assistance.
And there I was with that old man left in my charge.
When he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle
again athwart the saloon. He kept his hands rammed
in his pockets, he was as stiff-backed as ever, only his
head hung down. After a bit he says in his gentle soft
tone: "Did you see it?"'

"There were in Powell's head no special words to fit
the horror of his feelings. So he said — he had to say
something, 'Good God! What were you thinking of,
Mr. Smith, to try to . . .' And then he left off. He
dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith
stopped his prowl.

" ' Think ! What do you know of thinking? I don't
think. There is something in my head that thinks.
The thoughts in men, it's like being drunk with liquor

or You can't stop them. A man who thinks will

think anything. No! But have you seen it? Have
you?'

"'I tell you I have! I am certain!' said Powell

432 CHANCE

i
forcibly. 'I was looking at you all the time. You've
done something to the drink in that glass.'

"Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith
looked at him curiously, with mistrust.

"'My good young man, I don't know what you are
talking about. I ask you — have you seen? Who
would have believed it? with her arms round his neck.
When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you?
It wasn't a delusion — was it? Her arms round . . .
But I have never wholly trusted her.'

"'Then I flew out at him,' said Mr. Powell. 'I told
him he was jolly lucky to have fallen upon Captain
Anthony. A man in a million. He started again
shuffling to and fro. "You too," he said mournfully,
keeping his eyes down. "Eh? Wonderful man? But
have you a notion who I am? Listen ! I have been the
Great Mr. de Barral. So they printed it in the papers
while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have
been doing time. And now I am brought low." His
voice died down to a mere breath. "Brought low."

'"He took his hands out of his pockets, dragged the
cap down on his head and stuck them back into his
pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go out into a
great wind. "But not so low as to put up with this
disgrace, to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without
doing something. She wouldn't listen to me. Fright-
ened? Silly? I had to think of some way to get her
out of this. Did you think she cared for him? No!
Would anybody have thought so ? No ! She pretended
it was for my sake. She couldn't understand that if I
hadn't been an old man I would have flown at his throat
months ago. As it was I was tempted every time he
looked at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this.
And all the time the wicked little fool was lying to me.
It was their plot, their conspiracy ! These conspiracies

"A IVlUUJNL-JibS JNlGHT" 433

are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has
fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that
scoundrel, of her husband .... Treachery ! Bring-
ing me low. Lower than herself. In the dirt. That's
what it means. Doesn't it? Under his heel !" '

"He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing
his cap with both hands, dragged it furiously right down
on his ears. Powell had lost himself in listening to these
broken ravings, in looking at that old feverish face when,
suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round,
snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hur-
ried exclamation, 'Here's luck,' tossed the liquor down
his throat.

'"I know now the meaning of the word "Consterna-
tion,"' went on Mr. Powell. 'That was exactly my
state of mind. I thought to myself directly: There's
nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming. I have
made the awf ulest mistake ! . . . '

"Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before
Powell unharmed, quieted down, in a listening attitude,
his head inclined on one side, chewing his thin lips.
Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoul-
der and collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had
gone soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff collapses.
Powell seized his arm instinctively and checked his
fall; but as soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he
jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quickly
he rushed forward again and tried to lift up the body.
But directly he raised his shoulders he knew that the
man was dead! Dead!

"He lowered him down gently. He stood over him.
without fear or any other feeling, almost indifferent, far
away, as it were. And then he made another start and,
if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he
would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her

434 , CHANCE

cabin door, and, as it was, his call for 'Captain An-
thony' burst out of him much too loud; but he made a
great effort of self-control. ' I am waiting for my orders,
sir,' he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady
tone.

"It was very still in there; still as death. Then he
heard a shuffle of feet and the captain's voice 'All right.
Coming.' He leaned his back against the bulkhead
as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up against
a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain
found him, when he came out, pulling the door to after
him quickly. At once Anthony let his eyes run all over
the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched his fore-
arm, led him round the end of the table and began to
justify himself. 'I couldn't stop him,' he whispered
shakily. 'He was too quick for me. He drank it up
and fell down.' But the captain was not listening.
He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps
that it was a mere chance his own body was not lying
there. They did not want to speak. They made signs
to each other with their eyes. The captain grasped
Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs.
Anthony's cabin door, and it was enough. He knew
that the young man understood him. Rather! Silence!
Silence for ever about this. Their very glances became
stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door
of the dead man's state-room. The captain nodded
and let him go; and then Powell crept over, hooked the
door open and crept back with fearful glances towards*
Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse.
Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders.

"Mr. Powell shuddered. 'I'll never forget that in-
terminable journey across the saloon, step by step,
holding our breath. For part of the way the drawn,
half of the curtain concealed us from ykw had Mrs-

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" W&

Anthony opened her door; but I didn't draw a 1 "free
breath till after we laid the body down on the swinging
cot. The reflection of the saloon light left most of-itJa©
cabin in the shadow. Mr. Smith's rigid, extended bs&djjrr
looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You kaq^/J
he always carried himself as 'stiff as a poker. « fSjfe
stood by the cot as though waiting for him to make'ug*
sign that he wanted to be left alone. The caflitagi
threw his arm over my shoulder and said in myuvejjy.
ear: "The steward'll find him in the morning." y v,ffu r d[

'"I made no answer. It was for him to say. (KbwalS
perhaps the best way. It's no use talking abojjit ljft$
thoughts. They were not concerned with myself, jaoc
yet with that old man who terrified me more now thrift
when he was alive. Him whom I pitied was thfecjapft
tain. He whispered: "I am certain of you, Mr. Ifo$<
You had better go on deck now. As to me . .
I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distra#fce<!b
But his last words before we stole out of thatioafej©
stick to my mind with the very tone of his mutfcerPHo
himself, not to me — ad sqiq

'"No! No! I am not going to stumble no\sf swsaf
that corpse.' j& ad

Siarfw

"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell mesf'teaid
Marlow, changing his tone. "I was glad to hamrihs>%
Flora de Barral had been saved from that sinister sh$flte#
at least falling upon her path. t moAl

"We sat silent then, my mind running on thet>j«n4
of de Barral, on the irresistible pressure of imaginary
griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, prudenceb maste!
their ever-expanding volume, on the sombre and ■ verior
mous irony in the obsession which had masteredrltb&t
old man. nioaH

«" Well,' I said. «no

436 CHANCE

"'The steward found him,' Mr. Powell roused him-
self. 'He went in there with a cup of tea at five and of
course dropped it. I was on watch again. He reeled
up to me on deck, pale as death. I had been expecting
it; and yet I could hardly speak. "Go and tell the
captain quietly," I managed to say. He ran off mutter-
ing " My God ! My God ! " and I'm hanged if he didn't
get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and start
screaming in the saloon, "Fully dressed! Dead!
Fully dressed!" Mrs. Anthony ran out of course but
she didn't get hysterical. Franklin, who was there too,
told me that she hid her face on the captain's breast
and then he went out and left them there. It was
days before Mrs. Anthony was seen on deck. The
first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and said,
"My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell."
She started wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side
[of the deck. One would like to forget all this had ever
come near her.'

"But clearly he could not, because after lighting his
pipe he began musing aloud: 'Very strong stuff it must
have been. I wonder where he got it. It could hardly
be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from some-
where — a mere pinch it must have been, no more.'

"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a
certain extent does away with the added horror of a
coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in
there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the
poison. It was the Great de Barral. And it was not
meant for the obscure, magnanimous conqueror of
Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notorious financier
whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity.
He had his physician in his days of greatness. I even
seem to remember that the man was called at the trial
on some small point or other. I can imagine that de

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 437

Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly
help seeing, the possibility of a 'triumph of envious
rivals' — a heavy sentence.

"I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think
possibly from pity that man provided him with what
Mr. Powell called 'strong stuff.' From what Powell
saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been
contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on
the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in
his waistcoat pocket. He didn't use it. "Why? Did
he think of his child at the last moment? Was it want
of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his
clothes when he came out of jail. It had escaped in-
vestigation if there was any. Chance had armed him.
And chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life,
forced him to turn the abominable weapon against
himself.

"I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted
it at once as, in a sense, favourable to the father of Mrs.
Anthony. Then he waved his hand. 'Don't let us
think of it.'

"I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily —

"'I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all
over the world for near on six years. Almost as long
as Franklin.'

'"Oh, yes! What about Franklin?' I asked.

"Powell smiled. 'He left the Ferndale a year .or so
afterwards, and I took his place. Captain Anthony
recommended him for a command. You don't think
Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old
glove. But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him
very much. I don't think she ever let out a whisper
against him but Captain Anthony could read her
thoughts.'

"And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past.

388 CHANCE

'llbasked, for suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed
^through my mind,

"'Any children?'
>ini" Powell gave a start. 'No! No! Never had any
JekHdren,' and again subsided, puffing at his short briar
Ipipe.

ii9 r /' ' Where are they now? ' I inquired next as if anxious
ifco iascertain that all Fyne's fears had been misplaced
/and vain as our fears often are; that there were no un-
IdfiSirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of intru-
Jsienron their spotless home. Powell looked round at me
aflbwly, his pipe smouldering in his hand.
-ni'l'Don't you know?' he uttered in a deep voice.
.fmV'Know what?'

, oil!" That the Ferndale was lost this four years or more.
JSuhk. Collision. And Captain Anthony went down
with her.'

biftf You don't say so!' I cried quite affected as if I
.hsUL known Captain Anthony personally. 'Was — was
?Mrfe. Anthony lost too?'

"'You might as well ask if I was lost,' Mr. Powell re-
-jogfed so testily as to surprise me. 'You see me here —
I&Ms't you?'

gndiHe was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering
stare he smoothed his ruffled plumes. And in a musing
tone:

08 tf 'Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for
"ttem in the world. It seems as if there were things
iifat, as the Turks say, are written. Or else fate has a
itfey and sometimes misses its mark. You remember
itMit close shave we had of being run down at night, I
ifesjd you of, my first voyage with them. This go it was
•ijuBt at dawn. A flat calm and a fog thick enough to
slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on
board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed,

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 438

murderous thing looming up alongside and Captanfo
Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out, "Gioodr
God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell,) to
save themselves. There's no dynamite on board no'wd
I am going to get the wife! . . ."I yelled, all thef
watch on deck yelled. Crash ! ' A "

"Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. 'It wassa
Belgian Green Star liner, the Westland,' he went oify
'commanded by one of those stop-for-nothing skipperSI
Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die withouh
absolution. She cut half through the old Ferndale
and after the blow there was a silence like death. Nessft
I heard the captain back on deck shouting, "Set your
engines slow ahead," and a howl of "Yes, yes," answeoA
ing him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of>
people up there began making a row in the fog. The$>
were throwing ropes down to us in dozens, I must say.'
I and the captain fastened one of them under Mrs.
Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dinat
smile on her face. fT

" ' "Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the
steamer's deck. "You've got a woman on that line^i

" 'The captain saw her landed up there safe. Aa4
then we made a rush round our decks to see no one wad
left behind. As we got back the captain says: "Herd
she's gone, at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run
down at sea." >q

" ' "Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have"
been worse. Shin up this rope, sir, for God's sake. I
will steady it for you." 'T

"' "What are you thinking about?" he says angrilyu
"It isn't my turn. Up with you."

" 'These were the last words he ever spoke on earth J
suppose. I knew he meant to be the last to leave 'his
ship, so I swarmed up as quick °.s I could, and those

440 CHANCE

damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug
me in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot
of the silliest excitement I ever did see. Somebody
hails from the bridge, "Have you got them all on
board? " and a dozen silly asses start yelling all together,
"All saved! All saved," and then that accursed Irish-
man on the bridge, with me roaring "No! No!" till I
thought my head would burst, rings his engines astern.
He rings the engines astern — I fighting like mad to make
myself heard ! And of course . . .'

"I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's
face. His voice broke.

'"The Ferndale went down like a stone and Captain
Anthony went down with her, the finest man's soul that
ever left a sailor's body. I raved like a maniac, like a
devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking:
"Aren't you the captain?"

" ' "I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you
have drowned," I screamed at them. . . . Well!
Well ! I could see for myself that it was no good lower-
ing a boat. You couldn't have seen her alongside.
No use. And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to
go and tell Mrs. Anthony. They had taken her down
below somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go and
tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to
me as white as a sheet, "I think you are the proper
person." God forgive him. I wished to die a hundred
times. A lot of kind ladies, passengers, were chattering
excitedly around Mrs. Anthony — a real parrot house.
The ship's doctor went before me. He whispers right
and left and then there falls a sudden hush. Yes,
I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a,
brick.'

"Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. 'No one
could help loving Captain Anthony. I leave you to

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 441

imagine what he was to her. Yet before the week was
out it was she who was helping me to pull myself to-
gether.'

'"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?' I asked after a
while.

"He wiped his eyes without any false shame. 'Oh,
yes.' He began to look for matches, and while diving
for the box under the table added: 'And not very far
from here either. That little village up there — you
know.'

"'No! Really! Oh, I see!"

"Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But
I could not let him off like this. The sly beggar. So
this was the secret of his passion for sailing about the
river, the reason of his fondness for that creek.

'"And I suppose,' I said, 'that you are still as "en-
thusiastic" as ever. Eh? If I were you I would just
mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. "Why
not?'

"He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the
French call effarement was ever expressed on a human
countenance it was on this occasion, testifying to his
modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. He looked
afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious — almost
sacrilegious hint — as if there had not been a mile and a
half of lonely marshland and dykes between us and the
nearest human habitation. And then perhaps he re-
membered the soothing fact, for he allowed a gleam to
light up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire
tended in the sanctuary of his heart by a devotion aa
pure as that of any vestal.

"It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful
smile, sighed —

"'Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better,'
he said, more sad than annoved. 'But I forgot that

M CHANCE

you:-[never knew Captain Anthony,' he added indul-
gently.

"I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even
jbdfote he — an old friend now — had ever set eyes on her.
And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had heard of our
< i$©e , tings I wondered whether she would care to see me.
jMfoiFowell volunteered no opinion then; but next time
SKfc ^35 in the creek he said, 'She will be very pleased.
i5&ju-had better go to-day.'

"The afternoon was well advanced before I ap-
proached the cottage. The amenity of a fine day in its
decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a calming
ci&fluejuce; I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the
$ltsrejair, in the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the
memory of the conflicts, miseries, temptations and
-Qrjmes of men's self-seeking existence when one is
ftig^felwith the charming serenity of the unconscious
^Wre, Breathing the dreamless peace around the
picturesque cottage I was approaching, it seemed to
jjt$ thdt it must reign everywhere, over all the globe of
iwatoJMand land and in the hearts of all the dwellers on
4Msoeagth.

boJTJBk^a came down to the garden gate to meet me, no
ImgfiR— the perversely tempting, sorrowful wisp of
jwbJfce^ftAst drifting in the complicated bad dream of
•ejjsfcettjaej. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I
^Janji#i§md out stupidly, 'Again in the country, Miss
ot la&ifyfxs. . . .' She was very good, returned the
pieSsffiftflf my hand, but we were slightly embarrassed.
gEhgnijweiaughed a little. Then we became grave.

"I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin,
felllli^gfcal, is the light of the dawn. But she was now
her true self, she was like a fine tranquil afternoon —
and not so very far advanced either. A woman not
jBSIiftpboiaYer thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a

J' A MOONLESS NIGHT" 443

little colour, a lot of hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin,
and only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, absolutely
unchanged.

"In the room into which she led me we found a Miss
Somebody — I didn't catch the name— an unobtrusive,
even an indistinct, middle-aged person in black. A
companion. All very proper. She came and went and
even sat down at times in the room, but a little apart,
with some sewing. By the time she had brought in a
lighted lamp I had heard all the details which really
matter in this story. Between me and her who was
once Flora de Barral the conversation was not likely
to keep strictly to the weather.

"The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed
her in perpetual blushes, made her appear wonderfully
young as she sat before me in a deep, high-backed arm-
chair. I asked:

"'Tell me what was it you said in that famous letter
which so upset Mrs. Fyne, and caused little Fyne to
interfere in that offensive manner? '

"'It was simply crude,' she said earnestly. 'I was
feeling reckless and I wrote recklessly. I knew she
would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It was the
echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love
her brother, but that I had no scruples whatever in
marrying him.'

"She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half -laugh:

"'I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Mario w.
And I was proud of it. What I suffered afterwards I
couldn't tell you; because I only discovered my love for
my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and humilia-
tion. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I
could not put it to the test because of my father. Oh!
I would not have been too proud. But I had to spare
poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect, but I felt as

444 CHANCE

l

though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry
out. Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my great-
est grief. It was distracting. It frightened me. Oh!
I have been miserable! That night when my poor
father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort
of discussion about me. But I did not want to hold
out any longer against my own heart! I could not.'

"She stopped short, then impulsively:

" ' Truth will out, Mr. Marlow. '
' "'Yes,' I said.
' "She went on musingly:

"'Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like
darkness and light. For months I lived in a dusk of
feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm. . . . '

"Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts:
'No ! There was no harm in that letter. It was simply
foolish. What did I know of life then? Nothing. But
Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a
letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards
Roderick allowed me to glance at it. I found in it this
sentence: "For years I tried to make a friend of that
girl, but I warn you once more that she has the nature
of a heartless adventuress. ..." 'Adventuress!' re-
peated Flora slowly. 'So be it. I have had a fine
adventure. '

"'It was fine, then,' I said, interested.

" ' The finest in the world ! Only think ! I loved and
I was loved, untroubled, at peace, without remorse,
without fear. All the world, all life were transformed
for me. And how much I have seen ! How good people
were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere.
Yes, I have known kindness and safety. The most
familiar things appeared lighted up with a new light,
clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. The
sea itself! . . . , You are a sailor. You have lived

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 445

your life on it. But do you know how beautiful it
is how strong, how charming, how friendly, how
mighty? . . .'

" I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only
a little while.

"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of
it now. . . . Don't think that I repine. I am not
even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But I re-
member also the time when I was unhappy beyond
endurance, beyond desperation. Yes. You remember
that. And later on, too. There was a time on board
the Ferndale when the only moments of relief I knew
were when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the
poop. You like him? — don't you?'

'"Excellent fellow,' I said warmly. 'You see him
often?'

"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the
world. I am alone. And he has plenty of time on his
hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He's doing
nothing, I believe. '

'"He is fond of the sea,' I remarked. 'He loves it.'

'"He seems to have given it up,' she murmured.

"'I wonder why?'

" She remained silent. 'Perhaps it is because he loves
something else better,' I went on. 'Come, Mrs. An-
thony, don't let me carry away from here the idea that
you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your
past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting
the poor at the gate.'

"I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in
some agitation and went out with me into the fragrant
darkness of the garden. She detained my hand for a
moment, and then in the very voice of the Flora of old
days, with the exact intonation, showing the old mis-
trust, the old doubt of herself, the old scar of the blow

446 CHANCE

received in childhood, pathetic and funny, she mur-
mured, 'Do you think it possible that he should care
for me?'

"'Just ask him yourself. You are brave.'

"'Oh, I am brave enough,' she said with a sigh.

"'Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging
that patient man cruelly. '

"I departed, leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing
Powell making preparations to go ashore, I asked him
to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He promised
he would.

"'Listen, Powell,' I said. 'We got to know each
other by chance?'

,"'Oh, quite!' he admitted, adjusting his hat.

"'And the science of life consists in seizing every
chance that presents itself,' I pursued. 'Do you be-
lieve that?'

" ' Gospel truth, ' he declared innocently.

"'Well, don't forget it.'

"'Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present
itself,' he said, jumping ashore.

"He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail
and just as I had cast off from the bank, round the black
barn, in the dusk, two figures appeared and stood silent,
indistinct.

'"Is that you, Powell?' I hailed.

"'And Mrs. Anthony,' his voice came impressively
through the silence of the great marsh. 'I am not
sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony home.'
Then I must even go alone, ' I cried.

"Flora's voice wished me 'bon voyage' in a most
friendly but tremulous tone.

'"You shall hear from me before long,' shouted
Powell suddenly, just as my boat had cleared the mouth
of the creek.

"A MOONLESS NIGHT" 447

"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the
armchair lazily. "I haven't heard yet; but I expect
to hear any moment. . . . What on earth are you
grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid
of going to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all
my belief in Chance I am not exactly a pagan. . . „"

THK END

l^p

^o^jJAJJS^

<*^s